OARL  FI80HER    ;;  JEMIMTEP 

C<H>p«f  Ssjuar*  $31  WMhJi 


IWItWMjIWMMWWMWIMMj*^^ 


M> 


mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm 


tiiiiwitwiiimiiiiumtiiBiiwwuwiMiMwiwwiMtiMMiiMminimiigy 


WIWWWiWWMtWWWWJ^t^ 


•S«SJS^S  im  %  $AS&  ft*?***  $sw  !*** 


Sir  Henry  Heyman 


Memories  of  a® 
Musical  Life 


$  # 


*  >♦<  ♦ 


Rev.  H.  R..  HAWEIS,  m.  a. 

®  ®  @  #  @  ®  ®  @  $  n 


NEW  YORK 


BOSTON 


CARL   FISCHER 

Cooper  Square 


JEAN  WHITE  PUB.  CO. 

521  Washington  St. 


Copyright  1909  By  Carl  Fischer,  New  York 


\AV 


i  At 


\10l 


i     k 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

PAGE 

Reminiscences   of  Youth. —  Fiddle    Shops.  —  The  Men- 
delssohn Mania.  —  Bottesini 5 


CHAPTER   II. 
Some  of  my  Teachers.  —  Tennyson 17 

CHAPTER   III. 
College  Days 31 

CHAPTER   IV. 
Hearing  Music.  —  Concerts. — Music  as  a  Healer  .       39 

CHAPTER  V. 

Old  Violins  and  their  Makers. — The  Anatomy  of  the 
Violin. — About  Strings. — The  Italian  Schools. — 
Maggini.  —  Stradivarius.  —  Guarnerius.  —  Bergonzi 
and   guadagnin1 53 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Paganini       . 71; 


i)i>^'>*>  i 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

PAGE 

Richard     Wagner.   —  Wagner     in     Paris.  —  Personal 

Traits.  —  Wagner's  Death.  —  His  Popularity    .         .     105 


CHAPTER   VIII. 
Parsifal. — Act  I.  —  Act  II. — Act  III 134 


CHAPTER   TX. 

The  Ring  of  the  Nibelung. —  I.  Rheingold. — II.  Wal- 

kdre. — III.  Siegfried. — -IV.  The  Gotterdammerung.     15. 


CHAPTER    X. 
Liszt.  —  "Death  of  Young  Liszt" 16S 


MEMORIES 


MUSICAL    LIFE 


CHAPTER  I. 

REMINISCENCES    OF    YOUTH. 

I  THINK  it  was  Lord  Beaconsfield  who  said  that  a  man 
was  usually  interesting  in  proportion  as  his  talk  ran  upon 
what  he  was  familiar  with  ;  and  that  as  a  man  usually 
knew  more  about  himself  than  about  anything  else  he  sel- 
dom failed  to  be  tolerable  if  his  self-centred  talk  turned  out 
to  be  unaffected  and  sincere.  To  talk  about  one's  self  and  to 
be  dull  is,  nevertheless,  possible.  In  the  early  pages  of  this 
volume  I  shall  have  to  do  t'he  first  to  a  considerable  extent ; 
let  me  hope  to  avoid  the  second. 

Music  is  not  the  business  of  my  life,  but  it  remains  its 
sweetest  recreation  ;  and  there  is  one  opinion  which  used  to 
be  widely  held  by  my  friends  in  the  old  days,  and  to  which 
I  subscribed  for  many  years.  Nature,  they  often  said,  in- 
tended me  for  a  violinist. 

There  is  something  about  the  shape  of  a  violin  —  its 
curves,  its  physiognomy,  its  smiling  and  genial  /  \'s  — 
which  seems  to  invite  and  welcome  inspection  and  hand- 
ling. 

Tarisio,  the  Italian  carpenter,  came  under  this  fascina- 
tion to  good  purpose.  He  began  by  mending  old  fiddles  ; 
he  played,  himself,  a   little  ;  he  got  more  enamored  of  these 


M'EM'Gk'lES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


mysterious,  lifeless,  yet   living  companions  of  his   solitude, 
until  he  began  to  "  trade  in  fiddles." 

At  the  beginning  of  this  century,  hidden  away  in  old  Ital- 
ian convents  and  wayside  inns,  lay  the  masterpiece  of  the 
Amati,  Stradivarius,  the  Guarnerii,  and  Bergonzi,  almost 
unknown  and  little  valued.  But  Tarisio's  eye  was  getting 
cultivated.  He  was  learning  to  know  a  fiddle  when  he 
saw  it. 

"Your  violino,  signor,  requires  mending,"  says  the  itin- 
erant pedler,  as  he  salutes  some  monk  or  padre  known  to 
be  connected  with  the  sacristy  or  choir  of  Pisa,  Florence, 
Milan.     "  I  can  mend  it." 

Out  comes  the  Stradivarius,  with  a  loose  bar  or  a  split  rib, 
and  sounding  abominably. 

"  Dio  mio ! "  says  Tarisio,  "and  all  the  blessed  saints! 
but  your  violino  is  in  a  bad  way.  My  respected  father  is 
prayed  to  try  one  that  I  have,  in  perfect  and  beautiful  accord 
and  repair  ;  and  permit  me  to  mend  this  worn-out  machine." 
And  Tarisio,  whipping  a  shining,  clean  instrument  out 
of  his  bag,  hands  it  to  the  monk,  who  eyes  it  and  is  for  try- 
ing it.  He  tries  it ;  it  goes  soft  and  sweet,  though  not  loud 
and  wheezy,  like  the  battered  old  Strad.  Tarisio  clutches 
his  treasure. 

The  next  day  back  comes  the  pedler  to  the  cloister,  is 
shown  up  to  the  padre,  whom  he  finds  scraping  away  on 
his  loan  fiddle. 

"  But,"  he  exclaims,  "  you  have  lent  me  a  beautiful  vio- 
lino, and  in  perfect  order." 

"  Ah  !  if  the  father  would  accept  from  me  a  small  favor," 
says  the  cunning  Tarisio. 
"  And  what  is  that?  " 

"  To  keep  the  violino  that  suits  him  so  well,  and  I  will 
take  in  exchange  the  old  machine  which  is  worn  out,  but 
with  my  skill  I  shall  still  make  something  of  it !  " 

A  glass  of  good  wine,  or  a  lemonade,  or  black  coffee, 
clinches  the  bargain.  Oft'  goes  Tarisio,  having  parted 
with  a  characterless  German  fiddle,  —  sweet  and  easy-go- 
ing and  "  looking  nice,"  and  worth  now  about  £5  ;  in  per- 
fect order,  no  doubt.  — and  having  secured  one  of  those 
gems  of  Cremona  which  now  run  into  £300.  Violin-col- 
lecting became  the  passion  of  Tarisio's  life.  The  story- 
has  been  told  by  Mr.   Charles  Reade,  and  all  the  fiddle- 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


world  knows  how  Tarisio  came  to  Paris  with  a  batch  of 
old  instruments,  and  was  taken  up  by  Chanot  and  Vuil- 
laume,  through  whose  hands  passed  nearly  every  one  of 
those  chefs-d'oeuvre  recovered  by  Tarisio  in  his  wander- 
ings, which  now  are  so  eagerly  contended  for  by  English 
and  American  millionaires  whenever  they  happen  to  get 
into  the  market. 

I  have  heard  of  a  mania  for  snuff-boxes  ;  it  was  old  La- 
blache's  hobby.  There  are  your  china-maniacs,  and  your 
picture-maniacs,  and  your  old-print  connoisseurs  who  only 
look  at  the  margin,  and  your  old  book-hunters  who  only 
glance  at  the  title-page  and  edition,  and  your  coin-collectors 
and  your  gem-collectors,  who  are  always  being  taken  in  ; 
but  for  downright  fanaticism  and  "■gone-cooniness,"  if  I  may 
invent  the  word,  commend  me  to  your  violin-maniac.  He 
who  once  comes  under  that  spell  goes  down  to  the  grave 
with  a  disordered  mind. 

FIDDLE    SHOPS. 

I  said  that  I  was,  perhaps,  intended  for  a  violinist  by 
nature.  I  can  understand  Tarisio's  passion,  though  I  never 
followed  out  that  particular  branch  of  it  which  led  him  to 
collect,  repair,  and  sell.  I  could  not  buy  violins,  —  the 
prices  have  risen  since  the  days  of  the  Italian  pedler.  I 
could  not  cheat  people  out  of  them  ;  the  world  was  too 
knowing  for  that, —  and  then  I  was  too  virtuous.  I  could 
not  "  travel"  in  violins.  It  was  not  my  vocation  ;  and  one 
may  in  these  days  go  far  and  get  little,  for  it  is  now  about 
as  easy  to  find  a  Stradivarius  as  a  Correggio.  But  long 
before  I  had  ever  touched  a  violin  I  was  fascinated  with 
its  appearance.  In  driving  up  to  town  as  a  child  —  when, 
standing  up  in  the  carriage,  I  could  just  look  out  of  the  win- 
dow—  certain  fiddle  shops,  hung  with  mighty  rows  of 
violoncellos,  attracted  my  attention.  I  had  dreams  of  these 
large  editions,  —  these  patriarchs  of  the  violin,  as  they 
seemed  to  me.  I  compared  them  in  my  mind  with  the 
smaller  tenors  and  violins.  I  dreamed  about  their  brown, 
big,  dusty  bodies  and  affable,  good-natured-looking  heads 
and  grinning  J\'s.  These  violin  shops  were  the  great 
points  watched  for  on  each  journey  up  to  London  from 
Norwood,  where  I  spent  my  early  days. 


MEMORIES   OF  A    MUSICAL  LIFE. 


Youth  is  the  great  season  of  surprises,  as  it  certainly  is 
of  delights.  There  never  were  such  buttercup- he  Ids  and 
strawberry-ices  as  in  the  days  of  my  childhood.  Men  try  to 
make  hay  now,  but  it  is  poor  work  ;  and  as  for  the  mod- 
ern ices  they  are  either  frozen  amiss  or  ill-mixed.  They 
are  not  good  enough  for  me  who  can  remember  what  they 
were  in  the  exhibition  of  1851.  One  of  my  keenest  musi- 
cal impressions  is  connected  with  that  marvellous  show.  I 
shall  never  see  such  another.  As  I  stood  in  the  gallery  of 
the  great  crystal  transept,  and  looked  down  upon  a  spectacle 
such  as  has  been  witnessed  since,  but  had  never  before  been 
seen,  a  feeling  of  intoxication  —  there  is  no  other  word  for 
lt  —  came  over  me. 

I  remember  perfectly  well  falling  into  a  kind  of  dream  as 
I  leaned  over  the  painted  iron  balcony  and  looked  down  on 
this  splendid  vista.  The  silver-bell-like  tones  of  an  Erard  — 
it  was  the  1,000-guinea  piano  — pierced  through  the  human 
hum  and  noise  of  splashing  waters,  but  it  was  a  long  way 
off.  Suddenly,  in  the  adjoining  gallery,  the  large  organ 
broke  out  with  a  blare  of  trumpets  that  thrilled  and  riveted 
me  with  an  inconceivable  emotion.  I  knew  not  then  what 
those  opening  bars  were.  Evidently  something  martial,  fes- 
tal, jubilant,  and  full  of  triumph.  I  listened  and  held  my 
breath  to  hear  Mendelssohn's  "Wedding  March"  for  the 
hist  time,  and  not  know  it !  To  hear  it  when  half  the  peo- 
ple present  had  never  heard  of  Mendelssohn,  three  years  af- 
ter his  death,  and  when  not  one  in  a  hundred  could  have 
told  what  was  being  played,  —  that  was  an  experience  I  shall 
never  forget.  As  successive  waves  of  fresh,  inexhaustible  in- 
spiration flowed  on,  vibrating  through  the  building  without 
a  check  or  a  pause,  the  peculiar  Mendelssohnian  spaces  of 
cantabile  melody,  alternating  as  they  do  in  that  march  with 
the  passionate  and  almost  fierce  decision  of  the  chief  proces- 
sional theme,  I  stood  riveted,  bathed  in  the  sound  as  in  an 
element.  I  felt  ready  to  melt  into  those  harmonious,  yet 
turbulent,  waves  and  float  away  upon  the  tides  of  "  Music's 
golden  sea  setting  towards  Eternity."  The  angel  of  Tenny- 
son's vision  might  have  stood  by  me  whispering :  — 

'■'  And  thou  listenest  the  lordly  music  flowing  from  the  illimitahle 
rears." 

Some  one  called  me,  as  I  was  told  afterwards,  but  I  did  not 


MEMORIES   OE  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


hear.  They  supposed  that  I  was  following;  they  went  on, 
and  were  soon  lost  in  the  crowd.  Presently  one  came  back 
and  touched  me,  but  I  did  not  feel.  I  could  not  be  roused, 
my  soul  was  living  apart  from  my  body.  When  the  music 
ceased  the  spell  slowly  dissolved,  and  I  was  led  away  still 
half  in  dreamland.  For  long  years  afterwards  the  "  Wed- 
ding March,"  which  is  now  considered  banale  and  claptrap 
by  the  advanced  school,  affected  me  strangely.  Its  power 
over  me  has  almost  entirely  ceased.  It  is  a  memory  now 
more  than  a  realization  — 

"  eheu  !  fugaces,  Posthume, 
Posthume,  labuntur  anni  —  " 

THE    MENDELSSOHN    MANIA. 

This  was  in  1S51  ;  but  it  must  have  been  about  the  year 
1S46  that  I  was  taken  up  to  a  concert  at  Exeter  Hall,  and 
heard  there  for  the  first  time  what  seemed  to  me  to  be  music 
of  unearthly  sweetness.  The  room  was  crowded.  I  was  far 
behind.  I  could  only  see  the  fiddlesticks  of  the  band  in  the 
distance.  Four  long-drawn-out,  tender  wails  on  the  wind 
rising,  rising ;  then  a  soft,  rapid,  flickering  kind  of  sound, 
high  up  in  the  treble  clef,  broke  from  a  multitude  of  fiddles, 
ever  growing  in  complexity  as  the  two  fiddles  at  each  desk 
divided  the  harmonies  amongst  them,  pausing  as  the  deep, 
melodious  breathing  of  wind  instruments  suspended  in 
heavy,  slumberous  sighs  their  restless  agitation,  then  recom- 
mencing till  a  climax  wras  reached,  and  the  whole  band 
broke  in  with  that  magnificent  subject  which  marks  the  first 
complete  and  satisfying  period  of  musical  solution  in  the 
overture  to  the  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream." 

I  was  at  once  affected  as  I  had  never  before  been.  I  did 
not  know  then  that  it  was  the  Mendelssohn  mania  that  had 
come  upon  me.  It  seized  upon  the  whole  musical  world  of 
forty  years  ago,  and  discolored  the  taste  and  judgment  of 
those  affected,  for  every  other  composer.  The  epidemic 
lasted  for  about  twenty  years  at  its  height ;  declined  rather 
suddenly  with  the  growing  appreciation  of  Schumann,  the 
tardy  recognition  of  Spohr,  and  the  revival  of  Schubert, 
receiving  its  quietus,  of  course,  with  the  triumph  of  Wagner. 
People  noiv  "place"  Mendelssohn;  then  they  worshipped 
him. 


IO  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 

As  my  ideas  group  themselves  most  naturally  about  my 
favorite  instrument  —  the  violin  —  I  may  as  well  resume  the 
thread  of  my  narrative  in  connection  with  my  earliest  violin 
recollections.  I  became  possessed,  at  the  age  of  six  years, 
of  a  small,  red,  eighteen-penny  fiddle  and  stick,  with  that 
flimsy  bow  and  those  thready  strings  which  are  made  ap- 
parently only  to  snap,  even  as  the  fiddle  is  made  only  to 
smash.  I  thus  early  became  familiar  with  the  idol  of  my 
youth.  But  familiarity  did  not  breed  contempt.  I  pro- 
ceeded to  elicit  from  the  red  eighteen-penny  all  it  had  to  give  ; 
and  when  I  had  done  with  it,  my  nurse  removed  the  belly, 
and  found  it  made  an  admirable  dust-pan  or  wooden  shovel 
for  cinders,  and,  finally,  excellent  firewood.  Many  went 
that  way,  without  my  passion  for  toy  fiddles  suffering  the 
least  decline  ;  nay,  it  rather  grew  by  that  it  (and  the  fire) 
fed  on.  It  may  not  be  superfluous  to  add  that  I  had  by  this 
time  found  means  to  make  the  flimsiest  strings  yield  up 
sounds  which  I  need  not  here  characterize,  and  to  such  pur- 
pose that  it  became  a  question  of  some  interest  how  long 
such  sounds  could  be  endured  by  the  human  ear.  I  do  not 
mean  my  own.  All  violinists,  including  infants  on  eighteen- 
pennies,  admit  that  to  their  own  ear  the  sounds  produced  are 
nothing  but  delightful  ;  it  is  only  those  who  do  not  make 
them  who  complain.  As  it  seemed  unlikely  that  my 
studies  on  the  violin  would  stop,  it  became  expedient  that 
they  should  be  directed.  A  full-sized  violin  was  procured 
me.  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  it  was  one  of  the  worst 
fiddles  I  ever  saw. 

I  had  played  many  times  with  much  applause,  holding  a 
full-sized  violin  between  my  knees.  I  was  about  eight  years 
old  when  the  services  of  the  local  organist  —  a  Mr.  Ingram, 
of  Norwood  — were  called  in.  His  skill  on  the  violin  was 
not  great,  but  it  was  enough  for  me  ;  too  much,  indeed,  for 
he  insisted  on  my  holding  the  violin  up  to  my  chin.  The 
fact  is,  he  could  not  play  in  any  other  position  himself;  so 
how  could  he  teach  me?  Of  course  the  instrument  was  a 
great  deal  too  large  ;  but  I  strained  and  stretched  until  I  got 
it  up  ;  for,  as  it  would  not  grow  down  to  me,  I  had  to  grow 
up  to  it.  And  here  I  glance  at  the  crucial  question,  Ought 
young  children  to  begin  upon  small-sized  violins?  All 
makers  say  "Yes;"  naturally,  for  they  supply  the  new 
violins  of  all  sizes.     But  I  emphatically  say   "  No."     The 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


sooner  the  child  gets  accustomed  to  the  right  violin  intervals 
the  better ;  the  small  violins  merely  present  him  with  a 
series  of  wrong  distances,  which  he  has  successively  to 
unlearn.  It  is  bad  enough  if  in  after  years  he  learns  the 
violoncello  or  tenor.  Few  violinists  survive  that  ordeal,  and 
most  people  who  take  to  the  tenor  or  'cello  after  playing  the 
violin  keep  to  it.  Either  they  have  not  been  successful  on 
the  violin,  or  they  hope  to  become  so  on  its  larger,  though 
less  brilliant,  relation  ;  but  they  have  a  perfectly  true  instinct 
that  it  is  difficult  to  excel  on  both,  because  of  the  intervals. 
Yet  in  the  face  of  this  you  put  a  series  of  violins  of  different 
sizes  into  the  pupil's  hand,  on  the  ground  that,  as  his  hand 
enlarges  with  years,  the  enlarged  key-board  will  suit  his 
fingers  better ;  but  that  is  not  the  way  the  brain  works,  — 
the  brain  learns  intervals.  It  does  not  trouble  itself  about 
the  size  of  the  ringers  that  have  got  to  stretch  them.  A 
child  of  even  seven  or  eight  can  stretch  most  of  the  ordi- 
narv  intervals  on  a  full-sized  violin  finger-board.  He  may 
not  be  able  to  hold  the  violin  to  his  chin,  but  he  can  learn 
his  scales  and  pick  out  tunes,  sitting  on  a  stool  and  holding 
his  instrument  like  a  violoncello.  Before  the  age  of  eight 
I  found  no  difficulty  in  doing  this  But  the  greater  the 
difficulty  the  better  the  practice.  The  tendons  cannot  be 
too  much  stretched  short  of  spraining  and  breaking.  Mere 
aching  is  to  be  made  no  account  of;  the  muscles  can  hardly 
be  too  much  worked.  A  child  will  soon  gain  surprising 
agility  even  on  a  large  finger-board.  Avoid  the  hateful 
figured  slip  of  paper  that  used  to  be  pasted  on  violin  finger- 
boards in  my  youth,  with  round  dots  for  the  ringers.  I 
remember  tearing  mine  off  in  a  fit  of  uncontrollable  irrita- 
tion. I  found  it  very  difficult,  with  the  use  of  my  eyes,  to 
put  my  fingers  on  the  dots,  and  even  then  the  note  was  not 
always  in  tune,  for  of  course  the  dot  might  be  covered  in  a 
dozen  ways  by  the  finger-tips,  and  a  hair's  breadth  one  wray 
or  the  other  would  vary  the  note.  But  the  principle  is 
vicious.  A  violin-player's  eyes  have  no  more  business  with 
his  fingers  than  a  billiard-plaver's  eyes  have  with  his  cue. 
He  looks  at  the  ball,  and  the  musician,  if  he  looks  at  any- 
thing, should  look  at  the  notes,  or  at  his  audience,  or  he  can 
shut  his  eyes  if  he  likes.  It  is  his  ears,  not  his  eyes,  have 
to  do  with  his  fingers. 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


I  was  about  eight  years  old.  My  musical  studies  were 
systematic,  if  not  well  directed.  Every  morning  for  two 
hours  I  practised  scales  and  various  tunes  at  a  double  desk, 
my  father  on  one  side  and  I  on  the  other.  We  played  the 
most  deplorable  arrangements,  and  we  made  the  most 
detestable  noise.  We  played  Beethoven's  overture  to 
"Prometheus,"  arranged  for  two  fiddles;  Callcott's  Ger- 
man melodies  with  pianoforte  accompaniment,  and  without 
the  violoncello  part ;  and  Corelli's  trios,  also  without 
the  third  instrument.  I  had  somehow  ceased  to  take  les- 
sons now.  My  father's  knowledge  of  violin-playing  was 
exactly  on  a  level  with  my  own ;  his  skill,  he  modestly 
owned,  was  even  less,  but  had  it  not  been  for  him  I  never 
should  have  played  at  all.  Our  method  was  simple.  We 
sat  for  two  hours  after  breakfast  and  scraped.  In  the 
evening,  with  the  addition  of  the  piano,  we  scraped  again  — 
anything  we  could  get  hold  of;  and  we  did  get  hold  of  odd 
things:  Locke's  music  to  "Macbeth,"  old  quadrilles,  the 
"  Battle  of  Prague,"  "  God  save  the  Emperor,"  and  the 
"Huntsman's  Chorus."  I  confess  I  hated  the  practising ; 
it  was  simple  drudgery;  and,  put  it  in  what  way  you  will, 
the  early  stage  of  violin-playing  is  drudgery,  but  it  must  be 
gone  through  with.  And  then  I  had  my  hours  of  relaxa- 
tion. I  used  to  walk  up  and  down  the  lawn  in  our  garden 
playing  tunes  in  my  own  fashion.  I  got  very  much  at 
home  on  the  finger-board,  and  that  is  the  grand  thing,  after 
all.  No  one  ever  gets  at  home  there  who  has  not  begun 
young,  — not  so  young  as  I  began,  but  at  least  under  the 
age  of  twelve.  I  was  soon  considered  an  infant  phenome- 
non on  the  violin,  stood  on  tables,  and  was  trotted  out  at 
parties,  and  I  thus  early  got  over  all  shyness  at  playing  in 
public. 

The  finest  lesson  a  young  player  can  have  is  to  hear  good 
playing.  So  my  father  thought.  We  had  both  come  to  a 
kind  of  stand-still  in  our  music.  We  seemed,  as  he  ex- 
pressed it,  to  have  stuck. 

It  now  happily  occurred  to  him  to  subscribe  to  certain 
quartet  concerts  then  announced  to  take  place  at  Willis's 
Rooms.  In  those  days  such  things  were  novelties.  With 
the  exception  of  Ella's  Musical  Union,  then  in  its  early 
days,  I  believe  no  public  quartets  have  been  given  in  Lon- 
don, except  perhaps  as  a  rare  feature  in  some  chamber  con- 


MEMORIES   OE  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


l3 


cert.    At  each  concert  some  bright,  particular  star  appeared 
as  a  soloist. 

BOTTESINI. 

On  a  certain  afternoon  there  was  neither  solo  pianist  nor 
violinist  down  on  the  programme,  but  a  player  on  the  contre- 
basso  was  to  occupy  the  vacant  place.  I  remember  my  dis- 
appointment. Who  is  that  tall,  sallow-looking  creature, 
with  black  mustache  and  straight  hair,  with  long,  bony 
ringers,  yet  withal  a  comely  hand,  who  comes  lugging  a 
great  double-bass  with  him  ?  Some  one  might  have  lifted  it 
up  for  him  ;  but,  no,  he  carries  it  himself,  and  hoists  it  lov- 
ingly on  to  the  platform.  He  seems  familiar  with  its  ways, 
and  will  allow  no  one  to  help  him.  Why,  there  are  Sainton, 
Hill,  Piatti,  and  Cooper,  all  coming  on  without  their 
fiddles.  They  seem  vastly  interested  in  this  ungainly  couple, 
—  the  man  and  the  big  bass.  He  has  no  music.  People 
behind  me  are  standing  up  to  get  a  better  sight  of  him, 
although  he  is  tall  enough  in  all  conscience.  I  had 
better  stand  up  too  ;  they  are  standing  up  in  front  of  me,  I 
shall  see  nothing !  —  so  I  stood  on  a  chair.  The  first  curi- 
osity over,  we  all  sat  down,  and,  expecting  little  but  a  series 
of  grunts,  were  astonished  at  the  outset  at  the  ethereal  notes 
lightly  touched  on  the  three  thick  strings,  harmonics  of 
course,  just  for  tuning.  But  all  seemed  exquisitely  in  tune 
with  the  piano. 

This  man  was  Bottesini,  then  the  latest  novelty.  How 
he  bewildered  us  by  playing  all  sorts  of  melodies  in  flute-like 
harmonics,  as  though  he  had  a  hundred  nightingales  caged 
in  his  double-bass  !  Where  he  got  his  harmonic  sequences 
from  ;  how  he  hit  the  exact  place  with  his  long,  sensitive, 
ivory-looking  fingers ;  how  he  swarmed  up  and  down  the 
finger-board,  holding  it  round  the  neck  at  times  with  the  grip 
of  a  giant,  then,  after  eliciting  a  grumble  of  musical  thunder, 
darting  up  to  the  top  and  down  again,  with  an  expression 
on  his  face  that  never  seemed  to  alter,  and  his  face  always 
calmly  and  rather  grimly  surveying  the  audience  ;  how  his 
bow  moved  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning,  and  his  fingers 
seemed,  like  Miss  Kilmansegg's  leg,  to  be  a  judicious  com- 
pound of  clockwork  and  steam,  — all  this,  and  more,  is  now 
a  matter  of  musical  history,  but  it  was  new  then.  I  heard 
him   play  the  "  Carnival  de  Venice."     I    have  heard  him 


*4 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


play  it  and  some  three  or  four  other  solos  since  at  intervals 
of  years.  His  stock  seemed  tome  limited;  but  when  you 
can  make  your  fortune  with  half  a  dozen,  or  even  a  couple 
of  solos,  why  play  more?  At  one  time  he  travelled  with 
Lazarus,  the  matchless  clarionet-player ;  and  I  shall  long 
remember  the  famous  duet  they  invariably  played,  and 
which  was  always  encored.  Then  Bottesini  was  fond  of 
conducting  and  of  composing.  He  got  a  good  appointment 
in  Egypt,  and  I  suppose  got  tired  of  going  "  around  "  playing 
the  same  solos.  I  never  wearied  of  his  consummate  grace 
and  finish,  his  fatal  precision,  his  heavenly  tone,  his  fine 
taste.  One  sometimes  yearned  for  a  touch  of  human 
imperfection,  but  he  was  like  a  dead-shot :  he  never 
missed  what  he  aimed  at,  and  he  never  aimed  at  less  than 
perfection. 

Another  afternoon  there  came  on  a  boy  with  a  shock  head 
of  light  hair,  who  was  received  with  a  storm  of  applause. 
He  was  about  sixteen,  and  held  a  violin.  His  name  was 
Joachim.  He  laid  his  head  upon  his  Cremona,  lifted  his 
bow  arm,  and  plunged  into  such  a  marvellous  performance 
of  Bach's  "  Chaconne  "  as  was  certainly  never  before  heard 
in  London.  The  boy  seemed  to  fall  into  a  dream  in  listen- 
ing to  his  own  complicated  mechanism.  He  shook  out  the 
notes  with  the  utmost  ease  and  fluency.  It  all  seemed  no 
trouble  to  him,  and  left  him  quite  free  to  contemplate  the 
masterpiece  which  he  was  busy  in  interpreting.  Mendels- 
sohn, after  hearing  him  play  the  same  masterpiece  on  one 
occasion,  caught  him  in  his  arms  and  embraced  him  before 
the  audience. 

About  this  time  I  heard  Jullien's  band  at  the  Surrey 
Zoological  Gardens.  The  siege  of  Gibraltar  was  going  on 
at  night,  with  explosions  and  fireworks  of  inconceivable 
splendor ;  the  great  card-boai-d  ships  looked  quite  real  to 
me,  —  they  were  blown  to  pieces  every  evening,  —  and  the 
fort,  with  the  sentinels  pacing  up  and  down  on  the  ramparts, 
as  large  as  life.  The  band  played  in  a  covered  alcove,  not 
far  from  the  water's  brink.  The  effect  on  a  summer's  even- 
ing was  delightful.  Jullien's  enormous  white  waistcoat 
and  heavily  gilt  arm-chair  made  a  good  centre.  I  can  see 
his  large,  puffy,  pale  face  and  black  mustache  now,  as  he 
lolled  back  exhausted  in  the  gorgeous  fauteuil ;  then  sprang 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


*5 


up,  full  of  fire,  patted  the  solo  cornet  on  the  shoulder  with 
"Pratiquez!"  I  happened  to  overhear  him.  "  Pratiquez, 
il  faut  toujours  pratiquez."  Bottesini  also  played  there  in 
the  still  summer  evenings,  with  magical  effect,  accompanied 
by  Jullien's  band.  Days  and  nights  of  my  childhood,  what 
music  !  what  fireworks  ! 

At  this  time  Jenny  Lind  and  Ernst  were  both  in  Lon- 
don ;  and  Liszt,  I  believe,  passed  through  like  a  meteor. 
I  never  heard  any  of  them  in  their  prime,  though  I  did 
hear  Madame  Lind-Goldschmidt  sing  the  "  Ravens"  at  a 
concert  years  afterwards,  and  it  was  my  privilege  to  hear 
Ernst  before  he  had  lost  his  cunning,  nor  shall  1  ever  hear 
his  like  again.  He  played  once  at  Her  Majesty's  Opera- 
House,  when  the  whole  assembly  seemed  to  dream  through 
a  performance  of  the  "  Hungarian  Airs."  The  lightest 
whisper  of  the  violin  controlled  the  house  ;  the  magician 
hardly  stirred  his  wand  at  times,  and  no  one  could  tell  from 
the  sound  when  he  passed  from  the  up  to  the  down  bow  in 
those  long,  cantabile  notes  which  had  such  power  to  en- 
trance me. 

I  heard  Ernst  later  at  Brighton.  He  played  out  of 
tune,  and  I  was  told  that  he  was  so  shaken  in  nerve  that, 
playing  a  Beethoven  quartet  in  private,  and  coming  to  a 
passage  of  no  great  difficulty,  which  I  have  often  scram- 
bled through  with  impunity,  the  great  master  laid  down  his 
fiddle  and  declared  himself  unequal  to  the  effort. 

Great,  deep-souled,  weird  magician  of  the  Cremona  !  I 
can  see  thy  pale,  gaunt  face  even  now  ;  those  dark,  hag- 
gard-looking eyes,  with  the  strange  veiled  fires,  semi- 
mesmeric  ;  the  wasted  hands,  so  expressive  and  sensitive  ; 
the  thin,  lank  hair  and  emaciated  form,  yet  with  nothing 
demoniac  about  thee,  like  Paganini,  from  whom  thou  wast 
absolutely  distinct.  No  copy  thou,  —  thyself  all  thyself,  — 
tender,  sympathetic,  gentle  as  a  child,  suffering,  always  suf- 
fering ;  full  of  an  excessive  sensibility;  full  of  charm  ;  irre- 
sistible and  fascinating  beyond  words  !  Thy  Cremona  should 
have  been  buried  with  thee.  It  has  fallen  into  other  hands. 
I  see  it  every  season  in  the  concert-room.  Madame  Norman- 
Neruda  plays  it.  I  know  she  is  an  admirable  artist.  I  do 
not  hear  thy  Cremona  ;  its  voice  has  gone  out  with  thee,  its 
soul  has  passed  with  thine. 

I   heard   other   great   players:  Sivori,    delicate,    refined, 


16  MEMORIES  OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

with  a  perfect  command  of  his  instrument, —  a  pupil  of 
Paganini's,  playing  all  his  pieces,  and  probably  no  more  like 
him  than  a  Roman  candle  is  like  a  meteor ;  Chatterton,  on 
the  harp,  a  thankless  instrument,  without  variety  and  never 
in  tune,  whose  depths  are  quickly  sounded,  —  arpeggio,  a 
few  harmonics,  a  few,  full,  glorious  chords  and  ethereal  whis- 
pering, and  da  capo  I  Piatti  on  the  violoncello,  —  a  truly 
disembodied  violoncello,  so  pure  and  free  from  catgut  and 
rosin  came  the  sound  ;  and  pianists  innumerable  in  latter 
davs.  But  if,  looking  back  and  up  to  the  present  hour,  I 
am  asked  to  name  oft-hand  the  greatest  players  —  the  very 
greatest  I  have  heard  —  I  say  at  once,  Ernst,  Liszt,  Ruben- 
stein. 


MEM  OK  IKS    OK  A    MUSICAL   LIFE. 


17 


CHAPTER  II. 

SOME  OF  MY  TEACHERS. 

FROM  such  heights  I  am  loth  to  return  to  my  own  in- 
significant doings,  but  they  happen  to  supply  me  with 
the  framework  for  my  present  meditations  ;  they  are,  in 
fact,,  the  pegs  on  which  I  have  chosen  to  hang  my  thoughts. 
I  was  at  a  complete  stand-still ;  I  sorely  needed  instruction. 
I  went  to  the  seaside  for  my  health.  One  day,  in  the 
morning,  I  entered  the  concert- room  of  the  town  hall  at 
Margate.  It  was  empty,  but,  on  a  platform  at  the  farther 
end,  half-a-dozen  musicians  were  rehearsing.  One  sat  up 
at  a  front  desk  and  seemed  to  be  leading  on  the  violin.  As 
they  paused  I  walked  straight  up  to  him.  I  was  about 
twelve  then. 

"  Please,  sir,"  I  began,  rather  nervously,  "  do  you  teach 
the  violin  ?  " 

He  looked  round  rather  surprised,  but  in  another  moment 
he  smiled  kindly,  and  said  :  — 

"  Why,  yes  —  at  least,"  he  added,  "that  depends.  Do 
you  mean  vou  want  to  learn  ?  " 

"  That's  it,"  I  said  ;  "  I  have  learned  a  little.  Will  you 
teach  me  ?  " 

"  Wait  a  bit.  I  must  finish  here,  first,  and  then  I'll 
come  down  to  you.     Can  you  wait?  "  he  added,  cheerily. 

I  had  been  terribly  nervous  when  I  began  to  ask  him,  but 
now  I  felt  my  heart  beating  with  joy. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  said,  "  I  can  wait !  "  and  I  waited  and  heard 
them  play,  and  watched  every  motion  of  one  whom  I  already 
looked  upon  as  my  master. 

And  he  became  my  master —  my  first  real Piaster.  Good, 
patient  Mr.  Devonport !  I  took  to  him,  and  he  took  to  me, 
at  once.  He  got  me  to  unlearn  all  my  slovenly  wavs,  taught 
me  how  to  hold  my  fiddle,  and  how  to  finger,  and  how  to 
bow.  It  seems  I  did  everything  wrong.  He  used  to  write 
out    Kreutzer's    earlv    exercises    over    his    breakfast,    and 


iS  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 

bring  them  to  me  all  blotted,  in  pen  and  ink,  and  actually 
got  into  disgrace,  so  he  said,  with  his  landlady,  for  inking 
the  table-cloth  !  That  seemed  to  me  heroic ;  but  who 
would  not  have  mastered  the  crabbed  bowing,  the  ups  and 
downs,  and  staccatos,  and  slur  two  and  bow  one,  and  slur 
three  and  bow  one,  and  slur  two  and  two,  after  that?  And 
I  did  my  best,  though  not  to  his  satisfaction  ;  but  he  never 
measured  his  time  with  me,  and  he  had  an  indefinitely 
sweet  way  with  him  which  won  me  greatly,  and  made  me 
love  my  violin  —  a  five-pound  Vuilhaume  copy  of  Stradiva- 
rius,  crude  in  tone  —  more  than  ever. 

When  I  left  the  sea  I  lost  my  master.  I  never  saw  him 
again.  If  he  is  alive  now,  and  these  lines  should  chance  to 
meet  his  eye,  I  will  join  hands  with  him  across  the  years. 
Why  should  he  not  be  alive?  Hullah,  and  Sainton,  and 
Piatti,  and  Mine.  Dolby,  and  Mme.  Lind-Goldschmidt,  and 
I  know  not  how  many  more  of  his  contemporaries,  and  my 
elders,  are  alive.  Only  there  was  a  sadness  and  delicacy 
about  that  pale,  diaphanous  face,  its  hectic  flush,  its  light 
hair,  and  slight  fringe  of  mustache,  —  I  can  remember  it  so 
well  ;  and  I  must  own,  too,  there  was  a  little  cough,  which 
makes  me  fear  that  Devonport  was  not  destined  to  live  long. 
Some  one  remarked  it  at  the  time,  but  I  thought  nothing  of 
it  then. 

I  made  a  great  stride  under  Devonport,  and  my  next 
master,  whom  I  disliked  exceedingly,  was  a  young  Pole, 
Lapinski,  who  could  not  speak  a  word  of  English.  Our 
lessons  were  very  dull.  He  taught  me  little,  but  he  taught 
me  something,  —  the  art  of  making  my  fingers  ache,  —  the 
great  art,  according  to  Joachim.  My  time  with  him  was 
pure  drudgery,  unrelieved  by  a  single  glow  of  pleasure  or 
gleam  of  recreation.  He  was  a  dogged  and  hard  taskmaster, 
knew  exactly  what  he  meant,  and  was  utterly  indifferent  to 
the  likes  and  dislikes  of  his  pupil,  —  the  very  opposite  to 
Devonport,  whom  in  six  weeks  I  got  positively  to  love.  In 
music  you  learn  more  in  a  week  from  a  sympathetic 
teacher,  or  at  least  from  some  one  who  is  so  to  you,  than 
from  another,  however  excellent,  in  a  month.  You  will 
make  no  progress  if  he  can  give  you  no  impulse. 

What  a  mystery  lies  in  that  word  "  teaching"  !  One  will 
constrain  you  irresistibly,  and  another  shall  not  be  able  to 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


l9 


persuade  you.  One  will  kindle  you  with  an  ambition  that 
aspires  to  what  the  day  before  seemed  inaccessible  heights, 
whilst  another  will  labor  in  vain  to  stir  your  sluggish  mood 
to  cope  with  the  smallest  obstacle.  The  reciprocal  relation 
is  too  often  forgotten.  It  is  assumed  that  any  good  master 
or  mistress  will  suit  any  willing  pupil.  Not  at  all  —  any 
more  than  A  can  mesmerize  B,  who  goes  into  a  trance  im- 
mediately on  the  appearance  of  C.  All  personal  relations 
and  teaching  relations  are  intensely  personal ;  have  to  do 
with  subtle  conditions,  unexplored,  but  inexorable  and 
instantly  perceived.  The  soul  puts  out,  as  it  were,  its  in- 
visible antennae,  knowing  the  soul  that  is  kindred  to  itself. 
I  do  not  want  to  be  told  whether  you  can  teach  me  anything. 
I  know  you  cannot.  I  will  not  learn  from  you  what  I  must 
learn  from  another ;  what  he  will  be  bound  to  teach  me. 
All  you  may  have  to  say  may  be  good  and  true,  but  it  is  a 
little  impertinent  and  out  of  place.  You  spoil  the  truth. 
You  mar  the  beauty.  I  will  not  hear  these  things  from 
you  ;  you  spoil  nature  ;  you  wither  art ;  you  are  not  for  me 
and  I  am  not  for  you —  "  Let  us  go  hence,  my  songs,  — 
she  will  not  hear." 

My  next  master  was  Oury.  I  fell  in  with  him  at  Brighton 
when  I  was  about  sixteen.  He  had  travelled  with  Paganini, 
and  was  a  consummate  violinist  himself.  He  was  a  short, 
angry-looking,  stoutly  built  little  man.  Genial  with  those 
who  were  sympathetic  to  him,  and  sharp,  savage,  and  sar- 
castic with  others,  —  he  made  many  enemies,  and  was 
unscrupulous  in  his  language.  I  found  he  had  been  unlucky, 
and  I  hardly  wondered  at  it,  for  a  man  more  uncertain,  un- 
stable, and  capricious  in  temper  I  never  met ;  but  he  was 
an  exquisite  player.  His  fingers  were  thick  and  plump, 
his  hand  was  fat  and  short,  not  unlike  that  of  poor  Jaell, 
the  late  pianist.  How  he  could  stop  his  intervals  in  tune 
and  execute  passages  of  exceeding  delicacy  with  such  hands 
was  a  mystery  to  me  ;  but  Jaell  did  things  even  more  amaz- 
ing with  his,  — stretching  the  most  impossible  intervals,  and 
bowling  his  fat  hands  up  and  down  the  key-board  like  a 
couple  of  galvanized  balls. 

I  was  at  this  time  about  sixteen,  and  a  member  of  the 
Brighton  Symphony  Society.  We  played  the  svmphonies 
of  the  old  masters   to  not  verv  critical  audiences  in  the  Pa- 


MEMORIES   OE  A    MUSICAL  LIEE. 


vilion,  and  I  have  also  played  in  the  Brighton  Town  Hall. 
It  was  at  these  meetings  I  first  fell  in  with  Oury. 

I  noticed  a  little  group  in  the  anteroom  on  one  of  the 
rehearsal  nights  ;  they  were  chattering  round  a  thick-set, 
crotchety-looking  little  man  and  trying  to  persuade  him  to 
do  something.  He  held  his  fiddle,  but  would  not  easily 
yield  to  their  entreaties.  They  were  asking  him  to  play. 
At  last  he  raised  his  Cremona  to  his  chin  and  began  to  im- 
provise. What  fancy  and  delicacy  and  execution  !  What 
refinement !  His  peculiar  gift  lay  not  only  in  a  full,  round 
tone,  but  in  the  musical  k4  embroideries,"  the  long  flourishes, 
the  torrents  of  multitudinous  notes  ranging  all  over  the  in- 
strument. I  can  liken  those  astonishing  violin  passages  to 
nothing  but  the  elaborate  embroidery  of  little  notes  which 
in  Chopin's  music  are  spangled  in  tiny  type  all  round  the 
subject,  which  is  in  large  type.  When  Oury  was  in  a  good 
humor  he  would  gratify  us  in  this  way,  and  then  stop 
abruptly,  and  nothing  after  that  would  induce  him  to  play 
another  note.  He  had  the  fine,  large  style  of  the  De  Beriot 
school,  combined  with  a  dash  of  the  brilliant  and  romantic 
Paganini,  and  the  most  exquisite  taste  of  his  own.  In  those 
days  De  Beriot' s  music  reigned  supreme  in  the  concert- 
room  until  the  appearance  of  Paganini.  It  had  not  yet  gone 
out  of  fashion,  and  I  remember  hearing  Oury  play  De 
Beriot's  showy  first  concerto  with  a  full  orchestra,  at  the 
Pavilion,  in  a  way  which  reminded  me  of  some  conqueror 
traversing  a  battle-field  ;  the  enthusiasm  he  aroused  was 
quite  remarkable  in  that  languid  and  ignorant  crowd  of 
loitering  triflers.  He  certainlv  brought  the  house  down. 
He  was  a  great  player,  though  past  his  prime,  and  he  knew 
how  to  score  point  after  point  without  ever  sacrificing  his 
musical  honor  by  stooping  to  clap-trap. 

From  Oury  I  received,  between'  the  ages  of  fifteen  and 
seventeen,  my  last  definite  violin  instruction.  After  that  I 
studied  for  myself  and  heard  assiduously  the  best  players, 
but  I  was  never  taught  anything.  Oury  had  been  trained 
himself  in  the  old  and  new  schools  of  Rode,  Baillot,  and 
De  Beriot,  and  only  grafted  on  the  sensational  discoveries, 
methods,  and  tricks  of  Paganini,  Ernst,  and  Sivori.  But 
he  was  artist  enough  to  absorb  without  corruption  and  ap- 
propriate without  mimicry.  He  always  treated  me  with  a 
semi-humorous,    though   kindly,    indulgence.      He   was  ex- 


MEMORIES  OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE. 


tremely  impatient,  and  got  quite  bitter  and  angry  with  my 
ways,  stormed  at  my  self-will,  said  I  had  such  a  terrible 
second  ringer  that  he  believed  the  devil  was  in  it.  I  had  a 
habit  of  playing  whole  tunes  with  my  second  finger  on  the 
fourth  string.  It  seemed  more  muscular  than  the  rest,  and, 
from  his  point  of  view,  quite  upset  the  equilibrium  of  the 
hand.     He  had  a  habit  of  sighing  deeply  over  the  lessons. 

"  You  should  have  been  in  the  profession.  What's  the 
use  of  teaching  you?  Bah!  you  will  never  do  anything. 
I  shall  teach  you  no  more." 

Then  he  would  listen,  as  I  played  some  bravura  passage 
in  my  own  way,  half-amused,  half-surprised,  half-satirical ; 
my  method  was  clearly  wrong,  but  how  had  I  got  through 
the  passage  at  all?  Then,  taking  the  violin  from  me,  he 
would  play  it  himself,  without  explanation,  and  then  play 
on  and  say  :  — 

"Listen  to  me,  that  is  your  best  lesson,  you  rascal!  I 
believe  you  never  practise  at  all.  Nature  has  given  you 
too  much  facility.  Your  playing  will  never  be  worth  any- 
thing.    You  do  not  deserve  the  gifts  God  has  given  you." 

At  times  poor  Oury  took  quite  a  serious  and  desponding 
view  of  me.  He  would  sit  long  over  his  hour,  playing  away 
and  playing  to  me,  telling  me  stories  about  Paganini's 
loosening  the  horse-hair  of  his  bow  and  passing  the  whole 
violin  between  the  stick  and  the  horse-hair,  thus  allowing 
the  loosened  horse-hair  to  scrape  all  four  strings  together, 
and  producing  the  effect  of  a  quartet.  He  described  the 
great  magician's  playing  of  harmonic  passages,  and  showed 
me  how  it  was  done,  and  told  me  how  the  fiddlers  when 
Paganini  played  sat  open-mouthed,  unable  to  make  out 
how  he  got  at  all  his  consecutive  harmonics. 

In  his  lighter  moods  he  taught  me  the  farm-yard  on 
the  violin  :  how  to  make  the  donkey  bray,  the  hen  chuckle, 
the  cuckoo  sing,  the  cow  moo.  He  taught  me  Paganini's 
lt  Carnaval  de  Venise"  variations  ;  some  of  them  —  especially 
the  canary  variation  —  so  absurdly  easy  to  any  fingers  at 
home  on  the  violin,  yet  apparently  so  miraculous  to  the 
uninitiated.  But  it  remained  his  bitterest  reflection  that 
amateur  I  was,  and  amateur  I  was  destined  to  be  ;  other- 
wise I  believe  I  should  have  been  a  pupil  after  his  heart, 
for  he  spent  hour  after  hour  with  me,  and  never  seemed  to 
reckon  his  time  or  his  toil  by  money. 


22  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

If  I  did  not  acquire  the  right  method  it  was  not  Oury's 
fault.  He  taught  me  how  to  hold  the  violin  ;  to  spread  my 
ringers  instead  of  crumpling  up  those  I  was  not  using  ;  to 
bow  without  sawing  round  my  shoulder. 

"  In  position,"  he  used  often  to  say,  "  nothing  is  right 
unless  all  is  right.  Hold  your  wrist  right,  the  bow  must  go 
right ;  hold  your  fiddle  well  up.  or  you  cannot  get  the  tone." 

Above  all  he  taught  me  how  to  zv/iip  instead  of  scraping- 
the  sound  out.  This  springing,  elastic  bowing  he  contrasted 
with  the  grinding  of  badly  taught  fiddlers,  who  checked  the 
vibration.  Some  violinists  of  repute  have  been  "  grinders." 
but  I  could  never  bear  to  listen  to  them.  Oury  poisoned 
me  early  against  the  grinders,  and  all  short  of  the  men  of 
perfect  method.  He  instilled  into  me  principles  rather  than 
rules.  I  caught  from  him  what  I  was  to  do,  and  how  I  was 
to  do  it.  He  did  not  lecture  at  me  like  some  masters  ;  he  took 
the  violin  out  of  my  hands  without  speaking,  or  with  merely 
an  impatient  expletive,  of  which  I  regret  to  sa\*  he  was 
rather  too  free,  and  played  the  passage  for  me.  His 
explanations  I  might  have  forgotten  ;  this  I  could  never 
forget,  and  I  could  tell  at  once  whether  what  I  did 
sounded   like  what   he   did. 

Oury  taught  me  the  secret  of  cant ab He  playing  on  the 
violin  ;  how  to  treat  a  simple  melody  with  rare  phrasing, 
until  it  was  transfigured  by  the  mood  of  the  player.  He 
taught  me  Rode's  Air  in  G,  —  that  beautiful  melodv  which 
has  been,  with  its  well-known  variations,  the  piece  de 
resistance  of  so  many  generations  of  violinists  and  soprani. 
I  was  drilled  in  every  note,  the  bowing  wras  rigidly  fixed 
for  me,  the  whole  piece  was  marked,  bar  by  bar,  with 
slur  p  and_/*,  rait  and  crescendo.  I  was  not  allowed  to 
depart  a  hair's  breadth  from  rule.  When  I  could  do  this 
easily  and  accurately  Oury  surprised  me  one  day  by  say- 
ing :"— 

"Now  you  can  play  it  as  you  like  ;  you  need  not  attend 
to  a  single  mark  !  " 

"  How  so?"  I  said. 

"Don't  you  see,"  he  said,  "the  marks  don't  signify: 
that  is  only  one  way  of  playing  it.  If  you've  got  any  music 
in  you  you  can  plav  it  in  a  dozen  other  ways.  Now,  I  will 
make  it  equallv  good,"  and  he  took  the  violin  and  played 
it  through,  reversing  as  nearly  as  possible  all  the  p's  and_/"\s\ 


MEMORIES   OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE. 


"  bowing  "  the  slur  and  slurring  the  "bow,"  and  it  sounded 
just  as  well.  I  never  forgot  that  lesson.  At  other  times 
Oury  was  most  punctilious  about  what  he  called  "  correct" 
bowing.  He  complained  of  my  habit  of  beginning  a  forte 
"attaque"  with  an  up  bow, — an  unusual  perversity  I 
admit,  —  but  I  replied,  in  my  conceit,  I  had  observed 
Richard  Blagrove  do  the  same  thing.  Oury  said,  as  sharply 
as  wisely,  "  When  you  play  like  Blagrove  you  may  do  it 
too ;  until  then,  oblige  me,  sir,  by  minding  your  up  and 
down  bow,  or  I  cease  to  be  your  violin  tutor." 

Oury  detested  Jullien  ;  why,  I  could  never  make  out. 
I  was  fond  of  maintaining  that  Jullien  had  done  much  for 
music  in  England,  introduced  classical  works,  was  a 
famous  conductor,  and  good  composer  of  light  music  him- 
self. 

"  He  knows  nothing,  I  tell  you ;  he  is  an  ignorant, 
affected  charlatan.  He  cannot  write  down  his  own  com- 
positions, he  borrows  his  subjects,  he  steals  his  treatment, 
and  he  bribes  a  man  to  lick  it  into  shape  for  him.  Mellon, 
his  leader,  is  a  good  musician  ;  but  don't  talk  to  me  of 
Jullien.  You  admire  the  way  his  band  plays  the  overture 
to  the  '  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  ; '  but  those  men  learnt 
it  under  Mendelssohn's  bdton!  Mendelssohn  took  an 
infinity  of  trouble  with  those  very  men.  They  knew  the 
music  by  heart  before  Jullien  touched  it,  and  they  played 
away  without  even  looking  at  him." 

I  used  about  this  time  to  hear  some  very  good  quartet- 
playing  at  Captain  Newberry's,  Brunswick  square. 

The  captain  had  some  fine  violins  ;  one  I  specially  coveted  ; 
he  held  it  to  be  a  genuine  Stradivarius  :  it  was  labelled  171 2  ; 
quite  in  the  finest  period,  and  of  the  grand  pattern,  —  the 
back  a  magnificently  ribbed  slice  of  maple  in  one  piece  ;  the 
front  hardly  so  fine  ;  the  head  strong,  though  not  so  fine  as 
I  have  seen,  —  more  like  a  Bergonzi ;  but  the  fiddle  itself 
could  never  be  mistaken  for  a  Bergonzi.  It  had  a  tone  like 
a  trumpet  on  the  fourth  string ;  the  third  was  full,  but  the 
second  puzzled  me  for  years, —  it  being  weak  by  comparison  ; 
but  the  violin  was  petulant,  and  after  having  it  in  my 
possession  for  thirty  years  I  know  what  to  do  with  it  if  I 
could  ever  again  take  the  time  and  trouble  to  bring  it  into 
oerfect  order,  and  keep  it  so,  as  it  was  once  my  pride  to  do. 


24 


MEMORIES   OE  A   MUSICAL   II EE. 


On  Captain  Newberry's  death  that  fiddle  was  sent  me  by 
his  widow,  who  did  not  survive  him  long.  She  said  she 
believed  it  was  his  wish. 

This  violin  was  my  faithful  companion  for  years.  I  now 
look  at  it  under  a  glass  case  occasionally,  where  it  lies  un- 
strung from  one  end  of  the  year  to  the  other.  It  belonged 
to  the  captain's  uncle  ;  he  had  set  his  heart  on  it,  and  having 
a  very  fine  pair  of  carriage-horses,  for  which  he  had  given 
JC1S0,  he  one  day  made  them  over  to  his  uncle  and  obtained 
the  Strad.  in  exchange.  This  was  the  last  price  paid  for  my 
violin,  some  fifty  years  ago.  It  came  into  the  hands  of 
Newberry's  relative  early  in  the  present  century  ;  how,  I 
know  not.  Many  years  ago  I  took  this  fiddle  down  to 
Bath,  and  played  it  a  good  deal  there  in  a  band  conducted 
by  the  well-known  Mr.  Salmon.  I  found  he  recognized  it 
immediately.  I  there  made  acquaintance  with  the  score  of 
Mendelssohn's  "  Athalie,"  playing  it  in  the  orchestra.  I 
studied  the  Scotch  and  Italian  symphonies  in  the  same 
way. 

No  amateur  should  omit  an  opportunity'  of  orchestral  or 
chorus  work.  In  this  way  you  get  a  more  living  acquaint- 
ance with  the  internal  structure  of  the  great  masterpieces 
than  in  any  other.  I  first  made  acquaintance  with  the 
k'  Elijah  "  and  "  St.  Paul  "  in  this  way.  What  writing  for 
the  violin  there  is  in  the  chorus  parts  !  What  telling  passages 
are  those  in  "  Be  not  afraid,"  where  the  first  violins  lift  the 
ohrases,  rise  after  rise,  until  the  shrill  climax  is  reached  and 
the  aspiring  passage  is  closed  with  a  long  drawn-out^"/ 

When  the  violins  pealed  louder  and  louder,  mounting 
upwards,  it  was  always  a  delight  to  me  to  hear  my  own 
powerful  first  string  thrilling  through  all  the  others.  The 
conductor  used  to  know  this  passage,  and  the  way  in  which 
it  told  on  my  Strad.,  and  invariably  gave  me  a  knowing  nod 
as  he  heard  my  violin  at  the  first  fiddle-desk  through  all  the 
others.  I  may  add  that,  as  a  rule,  when  any  particular. 
violin  in  a  band  is  heard  above  the  rest  it  usually  belongs 
to  a  bungler ;  but  there  are  passages  where  the  leading  vio- 
lins have  carte  blanche  to  play  up,  and  then,  if  you  can,  you 
may  be  allowed  to  sing  through  the  rest ;  and,  if  this  be 
anywhere  allowable,  it  is  of  course  so  at  the  first  violin 
desk. 


MEMORIES   OE  A   MUSICAL  LIEE. 


25 


Most  boys  find  it  difficult  to  keep  up  their  music  at 
school ;  with  me  it  was  the  reverse  ;  my  ill-health  was  the 
making  of  my  music.  I  had  been  an  invalid  on  and  oft*  up 
to  the  age  of  seventeen. 

When  I  was  sixteen  it  became  evident  that  I  was  not 
going  to  die  ;  my  health  was  still  feeble,  and  my  general 
education  defective.  I  was  sent  to  an  excellent  tutor  at  the 
Isle  of  Wight,  the  Rev.  John  Bicknell.  That  good  man 
never  overcame  my  dislike  to  mathematics,  but  he  got  me 
on  in  Latin,  and  he  was  kind  enough  to  tolerate  my 
violin. 

Oury  had  already  begun  to  direct  my  violin  studies.  I 
had  ample  time  at  school  in  the  Isle  of  Wight  for  practis- 
ing, and  I  practised  steadily,  nearly  every  day.  I  had  a 
faculty  for  practising.  I  knew  what  to  do,  and  I  did  it. 
I  always  remembered  what  Joachim  had  said  about  tiring 
out  the  hand  ;  and  with  some  abominable  torture  passages, 
invented  for  me  by  that  morose  Pole,  Lapinski,  I  took  a 
vicious  pleasure  in  making  my  fingers  ache,  and  an  intense 
delight  in  discovering  the  magical  effects  of  the  torture 
upon  my  execution. 

I  put  my  chief  trust  in  Kreutzer's  exercises,  —  admirable 
in  invention  and  most  attractive  as  musical  studies, — the 
more  difficult  ones  in  chords  being  little  violin  solos  in 
themselves.  I  perfected  myself  in  certain  solos  at  this  time. 
I  had  no  one  to  play  my  accompaniments,  and  no  one  cared 
to  hear  me  play  at  school,  except  some  of  the  boys,  who 
liked  to  hear  me  imitate  the  donkey  and  give  the  farm-yard 
entertainment,  including  the  groans  of  a  chronic  invalid, 
and  a  great  fight  of  cats  on  the  roof  which  never  failed 
to  be  greeted  with  rapturous  applause. 

I  said  no  one  cared  to  hear  me  play  at  Freshwater.  Yes, 
some  people  did.  One  autumn  whilst  I  was  at  Freshwater, 
an  old  house,  Farringford,  with  a  rambling  garden  at  the 
back  of  the  downs,  was  let  to  Baron  A.  — an  eminent  light 
of  the  Bench —  and  his  charming  family.  I  forget  how  they 
discovered  my  existence  ;  but  I  dare  say  Lady  A.  and  the 
young  ladies  found  the  place  rather  dull,  and  they  were  not 
the  people  to  neglect  their  opportunities. 

I  received  an  invitation  to  dinner ;  my  violin  was  also 
asked.     I  did  not  reply  like  Sivori,  when  similarly  invited 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


to  bring  his  violin  with  him,  "  Merci !  raon  violon  ne  dine 
pas  !  "  I  saw  to  my  strings  and  screws,  put  together  my 
solos,  and  went,  and  enjoyed  the  occasion  highly. 

TENNYSON. 

Soon  after  the  A.'s  left  Farringford  it  was  taken  by 
the  Poet  Laureate.  At  that  time  I  was  rapidly  outgrow- 
ing Longfellow,  and  my  enthusiasm  for  Mr.  Tennyson 
amounted  to  a  mania :  he  was  to  me  in  poetry  what 
Mendelssohn  was  in  music.  I  can  now  place  him.  I  can 
now  see  how  great  he  is.  I  can  now  understand  his  rela- 
tion to  other  poets.  Then  I  could  not.  He  confused  and 
dazzled  me.      He  took  possession  of  my  imagination. 

I  suppose  the  continued  play  of  one  idea  upon  my  brain 
was  too  much  for  me.  To  live  so  close  to  the  man  who 
filled  the  whole  of  my  poetic  and  imaginative  horizon  with- 
out ever  seeing  him  was  more  than  I  could  bear.  I 
walked  over  the  neglected,  grass-grown  gravel  between  the 
tall  trees  yellowing  in  the  autumn,  and  up  to  the  glass- 
panelled  doors,  as  bold  as  fate. 

"  Mr.  Tennyson,"  said  the  maid,  "  saw  no  one."  I  was 
aware  of  that.  Was  Mrs.  Tennyson  at  home?  Perhaps 
she  would  see  me.  The  servant  looked  dubious.  I  was  a 
shabby-looking  student,  sure  enough  ;  but  there  was  some- 
thing about  me  which  could  not  be  said  nay  !  I  evidently 
meant  to  get  in,  and  in  I  got. 

In  another  moment  I  found  myself  in  the  drawing-room 
lately  tenanted  by  the  Baron  and  Lady  A. 

There  was  the  piano,  beside  which  Miss  M.  stood  and 
sang  very  shyly,  and  under  protest,  in  her  simple  white  mus- 
lin dress  and  a  rose  in  her  hair;  there — but  the  door 
opened,  and  a  quiet,  gentle  lady  appeared,  and  bowed 
silently  to  me.     I  had  to  begin  then. 

I  had  no  excuse  to  make,  and  so  I  offered  no  apologv.  I 
had  called  desiring  to  see  Mr.  Tennyson,  that  was  all. 

The  lady  looked  surprised,  and  sat  down  by  a  little  work- 
table  with  a  little  work-basket  on  it.  She  asked  me  very 
kindly  to  sit  down  too.  So  I  sat  down.  I  said  that  mv  ad- 
miration for  Mr.  Tennyson's  poems  was  so  great  that,  as  I 
was  living  in  the  neighborhood,  I  had  called  with  an  ear- 
nest desire  to  see  him.     I  then  began  to  repeat  that  I  con- 


M EMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  zf 

sidered  his  poems  so  exquisite  that  —  a  smile  was  on  the 
kind  lady's  face  as  she  listened  for  the  thousand  and  first 
time  to  such  large  and  general  praises  of  the  laureate's 
genius.  But  the  smile  somehow  paralyzed  me.  She  evi- 
dently considered  me  a  harmless  lunatic,  not  an  impertinent 
intruder. 

This  was  fortunate,  for  had  I  been  summarily  shown  the 
door  I  should  not  have  been  surprised.  I  should  not  have 
gone,  for  I  was  desperate  and  prepared  to  show  fight,  and 
be  kicked  out,  if  needful,  by  the  laureate  alone  ;  but  the 
fates  were  propitious. 

Said  Mrs.  Tennyson,  "  My  husband  is  always  very  busy, 
and  I  do  not  at  all  think  it  likely  he  can  see  you." 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  if  you  ask  him?"  I  stammered 
out. 

Said  Mrs.  Tennyson,  a  little  taken  aback,  "  I  don't 
know." 

"  Then,"  said  I,  pursuing  my  advantage  with,  if  any  calm 
at  all,  the  calmness  of  a  calm  despair,  "  would  you  object 
to  asking  him  to  see  me,  if  only  for  an  instant?  " 

What  passed  in  that  indulgent  lady's  mind  I  shall  never 
know  ;  the  uppermost  thought  was  probably  not  flattering 
to  me,  and  her  chief  desire  was,  no  doubt,  to  get  rid  of  me. 
"  He  won't  go  till  he  has  seen  my  husband —  he  ought  never 
to  have  got  in  ;  but,  as  he  is  here,  I'll  manage  it  and  have 
done  with  him  ;  "  or  she  might  have  reflected  thus  :  "  The 
poor  fellow  is  not  right  in  his  head  ;  it  would  be  a  charity 
to  meet  him  half-way,  and  not  much  trouble." 

At  any  rate  at  this  juncture  Mrs.  Tennyson  rose  and  left 
the  room.  She  was  gone  about  four  minutes  by  the  clock. 
It  seemed  to  me  four  hours.  What  I  went  through  in  those 
four  minutes  no  words  can  utter. 

At  last  I  heard  a  man's  voice  close  outside  the  door. 

"  Who  is  it?     Is  it  an  impostor?  " 

In  another  moment  the  door  opened.  The  man  whose 
voice  I  had  heard  —  in  other  words,  Mr.  Tennyson  — 
entered. 

He  was  not  in  court-dress ;  he  had  not  got  a  laurel- 
wreath  on  his  head,  nor  a  lily  in  his  hand  —  not  even  a 
harp. 

It  was  in  the  days  when  he  shaved.  I  have  two  portraits 
of  him  without  a  beard.     I  believe  they  are  very  rare  now. 


28  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

I  thought  it  would  be  inappropriate  to  prostrate  myself, 
so  I  remained  standing  and  stupefied.  He  advanced 
towards  me  and  shook  hands  without  cordiality.  Why 
should  he  be  cordial?  I  began  desperately  to  say  that  I 
had  the  greatest  admiration  for  his  poetry  ;  that  I  could  not 
bear  to  leave  the  island  without  seeing  him.  He  soon 
stopped  me,  and  taking  a  card  of  Captain  Crozier's,  which 
lay  on  the  table,  asked  me  if  I  knew  him.  I  said  I  did,  and 
described  his  house  and  grounds  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Freshwater. 

I  have  no  recollection  of  anything  else,  but  I  believe 
some  allusion  was  made  to  Baron  A.,  when  the  poet 
observed  abruptly,  "  Now  I  must  go  ;  good-by  !  "  and  he 
went.  And  that  was  all  I  saw  of  Mr.  Tennyson  for  nearly 
thirty  years.  The  next  time  I  set  eyes  on  him  was  one 
Sunday  morning,  about  twenty-eight  years  later.  He  came 
up  the  side  aisle  of  my  church,  St.  James,  Westmoreland 
street,  Marylebone,  and,  with  his  son  Hallam,  sat  near  the 
pulpit,  almost  in  the  very  spot  that  had  been  pointed  out  to 
me  when  I  was  appointed  incumbent  as  the  pew  occupied 
by  Hallam  the  historian  and  his  son  Arthur, — the  Arthur 
of  the  "  In  Memoriam." 

But  I  have  not  quite  done  with  the  interview  at  Fresh- 
water. As  the  poet  retired,  Mrs.  Tennyson  reentered  and 
sat  down  again  at  her  work-table.  To  her  surprise,  no 
doubt,  I  also  sat  down.  The  fact  is,  I  had  crossed  the 
Rubicon,  and  was  now  in  a  state  of  considerable  elation 
and  perfectly  reckless.  I  thanked  her  effusively  for  the 
privilege  I  had  had  ;  I  believe  I  made  several  tender  and 
irrelevant  inquiries  after  the  poet's  health,  and  wound  up 
with  earnestly  requesting  her  to  give  me  a  bit  of  his  hand- 
writing. 

This  was,  perhaps,  going  a  little  too  far ;  but  I  had  now 
nothing  to  lose,  —  no  character  for  sanity,  or  prudence,  or 
propriety  ;  so  I  went  in  steadily  for  some  of  the  poet's  hand- 
writing. 

The  forbearing  lady  pointed  out  that  she  treasured  it  so 
much  herself  that  she  never  gave  it  away.  This  would  not 
do.  I  said  I  should  treasure  it  to  my  dying  day,  any  little 
scrap,  — by  which  I  suppose  I  meant  that  I  did  not  require 
the  whole  manuscript  of  "  Maud,"  which  the  poet  was 
then  writing,  and  which  is  full  of  Freshwater  scenery.     I 


MEMORIES   OF  A    MUSICAL   LIFE. 


29 


might  be  induced  to  leave  the  house  with  something  short 
of  that. 

With  infinite  charity  and  without  a  sign  of  irritation  she 
at  last  drew  from  her  work-basket  an  envelope  in  Mr. 
Tennyson's  handwriting,  directed  to  herself,  and  gave  it  to 
me. 

It  was  not  his  signature,  but  it  contained  his  name. 

Then,  and  then  only,  I  rose.  I  had  veni,  I  had  vidi, 
I  had  vici.  I  returned  to  my  school,  and  at  tea-time  re- 
lated to  my  tutor,  with  some  little  pride  and  self-conceit,  the 
nature  of  my  exploit  that  afternoon.  He  administered  to 
me  a  well-merited  rebuke,  which,  as  it  came  after  my  indis- 
cretion, and  in  no  way  interfered  with  my  long-coveted  joy, 
I  took  patiently  enough  and  with  all  meekness. 

I  have  been  a  martyr  to  bad  accompanists.  All  young 
ladies  think  they  can  accompany  themselves;  so  why  not 
you  or  any  other  man  ?  The  truth  is  that  very  few  ladies 
can  accompany  at  all.  To  accompany  yourself  properly 
you  must  do  it  with  ease  and  accuracy  ;  nothing  is  so  charm- 
ing and  nothing  is  so  rare. 

To  accompany  well  you  must  not  onlv  be  a  good  musician, 
but  you  must  be  mesmeric,  sympathetic,  intuitive.  You 
must  know  what  I  want  before  I  tell  you  ;  you  must  feel 
which  way  my  spirit  sets,  for  the  motions  of  the  soul  are 
swift  as  an  angel's  flight. 

As  from  the  age  of  seven  I  have  always  played  the  violin 
more  or  less  publicly,  I  entered  upon  my  amateur  career  at 
Brighton  without  the  smallest  nervousness.  My  facility  was 
very  great,  but  my  execution,  although  showy  (and,  I  blush 
to  add,  tricky),  was  never  as  finished  as  I  could  have 
desired.  My  tone,  however,  was  considered  by  Ourv 
remarkable,  and  except  when  drilling  me  with  a  purpose  he 
would  never  interfere  with  my  reading  of  a  solo.  It  was 
the  only  point  in  which  he  gave  in  to  me. 

"  I  never  taught  you  that,"  he  would  say  sharply. 

"  Shall  I  alter  it?"  I  would  ask. 

"  No,  no,  let  it  alone  ;  follow  your  own  inspiration  ;  you 
must  do  as  you  will,  the  effect  is  good." 

Indeed,  no  one  ever  taught  me  the  art  of  drawing  tears 
from  the  eyes  of  my  listeners.     Moments  came  to  me  when 


3o 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


I  was  playing  —  I  seemed  far  away  from  the  world.  I  was 
not  scheming  for  effect  —  there  was  no  trick  about  it.  I 
could  give  no  reason  for  the  rail,  the  p,  the  pp,  the  f. 
Something  in  my  soul  ordered  it  so,  and  my  fingers  fol- 
lowed, communicating  every  inner  vibration  through  their 
tips  to  the  vibrating  string  until  the  mighty  heart  of  the  Cre- 
mona pealed  out  like  a  clarion,  or  whispered  tremblingly 
in  response.  But  those  moments  did  not  come  to  me  in 
mixed,  buzzing  audiences  ;  then  I  merely  waged  impatient 
war  with  a  mob. 

The}'  came  in  still  rooms,  where  a  few  were  met.  and 
the  lights  were  low,  and  the  windows  open  toward  the 
sea. 

They  came  in  brilliantly  lighted  halls,  what  time  I  had 
full  command  from  some  platform  of  an  attentive  crowd 
gathered  to  listen,   not  to  chatter. 

They  came  when  some  one  or  other  sat  and  played  with 
me,  whose  spirit-pulses  rose  and  fell  with  mine,  —  in  a  world 
of  sound  where  the  morning  stars  seemed  always  singing 
together. 

I  was  such  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  my  accompanists  that 
at  last  they  got  to  have  a  wholesome  dread  of  me.  In  this 
way  I  often  got  oft'  playing  at  houses  where  people  asked 
me  to  bring  my  violin  impromptu,  because  I  happened  to 
be  the  fashion. 


MEMORIES   OF  A    MUSICAL  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

COLLEGE  DAYS. 

I  WENT  up  to  Trinity  College  in  1856.  I  was  com- 
pletely alone.  I  had  an  introduction  to  Dr.  Whewell,  the 
Master  of  Trinity.  But  what  w;is  Dr.  Whewell  to  me, 
or  I  to  Dr.  Whewell?  Something,  strange  to  say,  we  were 
destined  still  to  be  to  each  other.     Of  this  more  anon. 

Soon  after  passing  my  entrance  examination  I  was  sum- 
moned into  the  great  man's  presence.  In  the  course  of  our 
interview  I  ventured  rashly  to  say  that  I  understood  Cam- 
bridge was  more  given  to  mathematics  than  to  classics.  Dr. 
Whewell  replied,  with  lofty  forbearance,  that  when  I  had 
been  a  little  longer  at  Cambridge  I  should  possibly  correct 
that  opinion.  As  I  had  entered  under  the  college-tutor, 
Mr.  Munro,  perhaps  the  most  famous  Latin  scholar  of  the 
day,  my  remark  was,  indeed,  an  unfortunate  one,  most  fully 
displaying  my  simplicity  and  ignorance. 

The  master  questioned  me  as  to  my  aims  and  ambi- 
tions. I  had  none, — I  told  him  so  very  simply, —  I  played  the 
fiddle.  He  seemed  surprised  ;  but  from  the  first  moment 
of  seeing  him  I  took  a  liking  to  him,  and  I  believe  he  did 
to  me.  He  had  been  seldom  known  to  notice  a  fresh- 
man personally,  unless  it  were  some  public-school  boy  of 
distinction.  After  mv  first  interview  I  was  closely  ques- 
tioned at  dinner  in  hall,  when  I  found  that  Whewell  was 
regarded  as  a  sort  of  ogre,  not  to  be  approached  without 
the  utmost  awe,  and  to  be  generally  avoided  if  possible. 
Of  this  I  had  heen  happily  ignorant,  and,  indeed,  there  had 
been  nothing  to  alarm  me  in  the  great  man. 

The  master  married,  during  my  term  of  college  life. 
Lady  Affleck,  a  charming  person,  and  from  the  time  she 
became  mistress  at  the  Lodge  the  rugged  old  lion  seemed  to 
grow  affable  and  gentle,  and  apparently  eager  to  do  what  he 
could  to  make  people  "'at  home." 

When  he  married,  the  master  did  a  very  graceful  thing. 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


He  sent  for  me  one  morning,  brought  Lady  Affleck  in 
the  drawing-room,  and  said,  in  his  bluff  way,  "Mr.  Hawe 
1  wish  you  to  know  Lady  Affleck,  my  wife.  She  is  musics 
she  wishes  to  hear  your  violin."  The  master  then  left  1 
with  her,  and  she  got  me  to  arrange  and  come  and  play 
the  Lodge  on  the  following  night  at  a  great  party.  I  was 
bring  my  own  accompanist.  I  had  played  at  Dr.  Whewel 
before  that  night,  but  that  night  the  master  paid  me  spec 
attention.  It  was  part  of  his  greatness  and  of  his  tr 
humility  to  recognize  any  sort  of  merit,  even  when  tru 
different  in  kind  to'  his  own. 

Whewell's  ability  was  of  a  truly  cosmic  and  univen 
character  ;  but  nature  had  denied  him  one  gift,  —  the  gift 
music.  He  always  beat  time  in  chapel,  and  generally  sa 
atrociously  out  of  tune.  I  do  not  think  he  had  any  e;i 
music  to  him  was  something  marvellous  and  fascinating  ; 
could  talk  learnedly  on  music,  admire  music,  go  to  concer 
have  music  at  his  house,  W'orry  over  it,  insist  upon  silen 
when  it  was  going  on  ;  and  yet  I  knew,  and  he  knew  tha 
knew,  that  he  knew  nothing  about  it ;  it  was  a  closed  woi 
to  him,  a  riddle,  yet  one  he  was  incessantly  bent  upon  so 
ing,  and  he  felt  that  I  had  the  key  to  it  and  he  had  not. 

On  that  night  I  played  Ernst's  "  Elegie,"  not  quite 
hackneyed  then  as  it  is  now,  and  some  other  occasior 
pieces  by  Ernst,  in  which  I  gave  the  full  rein  to  my  fan( 
The  master  left  his  company,  and,  taking  a  chair  in  front 
where  I  stood,  remained  in  absorbed  meditation  during  t 
performance. 

I  was  naturally  a  little  elated  at  this  mark  of  resp< 
shown  to  an  unknown  freshman  in  the  presence  of  so  ma 
"Heads"  of  Houses  and  the  elite  of  the  University. 
played  my  best,  and  indulged  rather  freely  in  a  few  mc 
or  less  illegitimate  dodges,  which  I  thought  calculated 
bewilder  the  great  man.  I  was  rewarded,  for  at  the  clc 
Dr.  Whewell  laid  his  hand  upon  my  arm.  "Tell  me  o 
thing:  how  do  you  produce  that  rapid  passage,  ascendi 
and  descending  notes  of  fixed  intervals?"  I  had  simply 
a  tour  of  force  glided  my  whole  hand  up  and  down  t 
fourth  open  string,  taking,  of  course,  the  complete  series 
harmonics  up  and  down  several  times  and  producing  tl 
the  effect  of  a  rapid  cadenza  with  the  utmost  ease;  < 
trick    only    requires    a    certain    lightness    of  touch,    and 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


33 


knowledge  of  where  and  when  to  stop  with  effect.  I  replied 
that  I  had  only  used  the  series  of  open  harmonics  which 
are  yielded,  according  to  the  well-known  mathematical  law, 
by  every  stretched  string  when  the  vibration  is  interrupted 
at  the  fixed  harmonic  nodes.  The  artistic  application  of 
a  law,  which,  perhaps,  he  had  never  realized  but  in  theory, 
seemed  to  delight  him  intensely,  and  he  listened  whilst  I 
repeated  the  cadenza,  and  again  and  again  showed  him  the 
various  intervals  on  the  finger-board,  where  the  open  har- 
monics might  be  made  to  speak  ;  a  hair's-breadth  one  way 
or  the  other  producing  a  horrid  scratch  instead  of  the  sweet, 
flute-like  ring.  It  struck  him  as  marvellous  how  a  violinist 
could  hit  upon  the  various  intervals  to  such  a  nicety  as  to 
evoke  the  harmonic  notes.  I  replied  that  this  was  easy 
enough  when  the  hand  was  simply  swept  up  and  down  the 
string  as  I  had  done,  but  that  to  hit  upon  the  lesser  nodes 
for  single  harmonics  was  one  of  the  recognized  violin  diffi- 
culties. I  then  showed  him  a  series  of  stopped  harmonics, 
and  played,  much  to  his  surprise,  a  tune  in  stopped  har- 
monics. He  was  interested  to  hear  that  Paganini  had  been 
the  first  to  introduce  this  practice,  which  has  since  become 
common  property. 

After  the  anxiety  of  my  entrance  examination  at  Trinity 
College,  which  I  passed  without  glory,  I  solaced  my  loneli- 
ness by  making  as  much  noise  as  ever  I  could  on  my  violin. 

My  mathematics  may  have  been  weak,  and  my  classics 
uncertain,  but  it  was  impossible  to  ignore  my  existence.  I 
had  not  been  up  a  fortnight  when  the  president  of  the  Cam- 
bridge University  Musical  Society  called  upon  me.  He 
believed  I  played  the  violin.  "  How  did  he  know  that?" 
I  asked.  He  laughed  out,  "Everybody  in  the  place  knows 
it."  Then  and  there  he  requested  me  to  join  the  Musical 
Society,  and  play  a  solo  at  the  next  concert.  I  readily 
agreed,  and  from  that  time  I  became  solo  violinist  at  the 
Cambridge  Musical  Society  and  played  a  solo  at  nearly  every 
concert  in  the  Town  Hall  for  the  next  three  years. 

I  confess  to  some  nervousness  on  my  first  public  ap- 
pearance at  a  University  Concert.  It  was  a  grand  night. 
Sterndale  Bennett,  our  new  professor  of  music,  himself 
conducted  his  "May  Queen,"  and  I  think  Mr.  Coleridge, 
an  enthusiastic  amateur  and  old  musical  star  at  the  Univer- 


m  MEM  OK.  CAL   LIFE. 


Sity,  since  very  well  known  in  London.  sang,  ha 
lected  as  my  chevaJ  de  bataillc,  Kode's  air  in  G  wth  varia- 
tions, and  to  my  own  surprise,  when  my  turn  cane  to  go 
on.  I  was  quite  shaky.  The  hall  was  cranned.  the 
master  of  Trinity  sat  in  the  front  row,  with  othe  heads  of 
colleges  and  their  families.  I  tuned  in  the  nteroom. 
Some  one  offered  me  a  glass  of  wine.  I  had  nevi  resorted 
to  stimulants  before  playing,  but  I  rashly  drank  it  it  was  in 
my  head  at  once.  Sterndale  Bennett  conducted  ie  to  the 
platform.  I  was  a  I  >tal  stranger  to  the  company,  -  a  fresh- 
man, in  my  second  month  only.  My  fingers  fell  imp  and 
unrestrained,  my  head  was  half  swimming.  1  e  crowd 
looked  like  a  mist.  I  played  witli  exaggerated  i  nession. 
I  tore  the  passion  to  tatter-.  I  trampled  on  th  time.  I 
felt  the  excess  of  sentiment  was  bad,  and  special!)  bhorrent 
to  Sterndale  Bennett,  who  followed  my  vagaries  i 
—  bless  him  forever  ! 

But  the  thing  took.  The  style  was  new;  at  1 
unconventional  and  probablv  daring,  for  I  reav  hardly 
knew  what  I  was  about.  The  air  was  listened  i  in  dead 
.silence,  half  out  of  curiosity  no  doubt;  but  a  bust  of  ap- 
plause followed  the  last  die-away  notes.  I  pluged  into 
the  variations;  I  felt  my  execution  slovenl)  an  beneath 
my  usual  mark;  but  I  was  more  than  once  inteiupted  by 
applause,  and  at  the  close  of  the  next  cantabile  lovement 
of  extreme  beauty,  which  I  played  better,  —  a  soi  if  medi- 
tation on  the  original  air. — the  enthusiasm  ros  to  fever 
pitch  ;  men  stood  up  in  the  distant  gallery  and  w  ■■  ed  their 
cap-,  and  I  remained  holding  my  violin,  unable  i  proceed 
with  the  last  rapid  variation.  When  silence  was  Stored  I 
played  this  atrociously  :  I  hardly  played  it  at  al  it 
quite  wild.  Sterndale  Bennett,  seeing  that  it  W8  all  up 
with  me  that  night,  hurried  and  banged  it  through. nyhow : 
but  the  critical  faculty  of  the  room  was  gone,  s  was  my 
head.  I  had  won  by  a  toss,  and  although  then,  iu\  often 
afterwards,  owing  to  neglect  of  practice.  I  was  equently 
not  up  to  my  own  mark,  my  position  as  solo  violiist  at  the 
[  ty  Concerts  was  never  disputed   up  to  theime  that 

1       >k  i;,-.  degree. 

My  most  extensive  effort  was  De  Beriot's  first  oncerto. 
!    played    through    by    heart,    of  course,   nth   full 
orchestra.     It  did  not  go  well ;  the  band  was  no 


MEJk  RIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE.  35 

drilled  and  too  ften  smothered  me ;  but  I  was  bent  on 
playing  with  a  11  orchestra,  and  I  had  my  will  ;  but  I 
never  repeated  tl  experiment  at  those  concerts.  As  I  was 
invariably  encon  I  taxed  my  ingenuity  to  devise  new  sen- 
sations. "  Old  og  Tray,"  the  words  of  which  were  at 
that  time  very  fa;iliar,  was  a  favorite  encore,  the  first  verse 
taken  cheerfully. ind  each  verse  up  to  the  sausage  verse  in- 
creasing in  pathc  and  emotion  until  the  climax  was  reached 
in  — 

'    rnie  tempting  mutton  pies 
In  which  I  recognize 
he  flavor  of  my  old  dog  Tray. 

Old  dog  Tray,  he  was  faithful,"  etc.,  etc. 

The  audience  vere  never  tired  of  following  the  sound- 
drama  conducte  by  me  through  its  various  stages,  until  the 
sausage  verse  imriably  broke  down  amidst  roars  of  laughter. 

One  day,  as  I  as  sitting  in  my  arm-chair,  with  an  open 
book  upon  my  hee,  a  knock  came  at  the  door.  Opening 
the  door  brusqily,  I  was  confronted  by  a  strange  figure, 
with  a  sort  of  1  le  plaid  waistcoat,  well-made  frock-coat. 
heavily  dyed  th  whiskers,  and  dark  wig,  yellow  gloves, 
and  patent  boot  Middle-aged?  No, —  in  spite  of  the  wig 
and  showy  get-p,  — old,  very  old  ;  but  oddly  vigorous,  in- 
clined to  embofi  int ;  ruddy,  florid,  perhaps  choleric  face, 
marked  feature.--  verspread  now  with  a  beaming  smile  and 
a  knowing  twinle  in  the  rather  rheumy  eyes. 

I  never  saw  s  h  an  odd  man.  I  laughed  out  almost,  and 
instinctively  ext  ided  my  hand  and  shook  that  of  the  irre- 
sistible stranger  /armly,  although  I  did  not  know  him  from 
Adam. 

"  Beg  pardoi "  he  said  ;  "  may  I  come  in  ?  I  tell  you,  my 
friend,  my  nam  s  Venua  — never  heard  of  me —  no  matter — 
old  Venua  kno^   you  ;  heard  you  play  at  the  Town  Hall  — 

got  the  stuff  ii  ,  ou  ;   you  can  play  d d  well  ;  you  can 

play  better  den  it —  nature  gif  you  all  dis  gift — you  practise 

and  den  you  p  /  like  ze  d 1  himself.     Old  Venua,  dey 

say  to  me,  he  iow  all  about  it  —  he  can  tell  you  how  to 
play.  Forty  y.r  ago  you  should  have  heard  me  play  de 
fiddle  by  —  I  iay  de  fiddle  now  ;  gif  me  your  fiddle  — 
vonderful  tone   >ur  fiddle  —  where  is  your  fiddle?" 

All  this  was  ttered  without  a  pause,  very  rapidly. 


36  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 

The  strange,  rambling,  stuttering,  energetic,  decided  old 
creature  had  now  rolled  into  my  room  ;  he  had  sat  down  and 
pulled  out  an  enormous  silk  pocket-handkerchief,  then  an 
old  gold  snuff-box.  "  This  gif  me  by  ze  Grand  Duke  of 
Hesse  Darmstadt.  You  take  a  pinch.  Oh,  no  !  You  are 
young  man.  You  know  noding  of  snuff —  bad  'abit  —  young 
man,  bad  'abit !  never  you  take  snuff!  Old  Venua  can't 
get  on  widout  his  snuff.  All  de  bigwigs  take  snuff  with  old 
Venua — but  where  is  your  fiddle?  Bring  him  out,  I  say. 
Vonderful  tone  —  let  me  see  him." 

What  a  jargon  !  Was  it  Italian,  French,  or  German- 
English?  I  could  never  make  out.  In  an  old  book,  only 
the  other  day,  I  met  with  a  short  biography  of  a  certain 
Venua,  violinist,  who  flourished  at  the  beginning  of  this 
century.  Old  Venua,  of  Cambridge,  was  undoubtedly  this 
man.  He  was  very  long  past  his  prime  and  utterly  for- 
gotten. I  brought  him  out  the  fiddle  ;  he  put  it  to  his  chin  ; 
in  a  moment  I  could  see  he  had  played  ;  his  touch,  execu- 
tion, all  but  his  intonation,  were  gone,  but  his  style  was 
first-rate,  and  his  expression  admirable  in  intention. 

From  that  day  I  and  old  Venua  became  close  allies.  He 
used  to  ask  me  to  dine  with  him,  generally  on  Sunday, 
and  his  ceaseless  flow  of  anecdote  and  dramatic  style  of 
conversation  amused  me  greatly. 

He  had  known  Paganini,  he  had  seen  Beethoven,  he  had 
chatted  with  Spohr,  he  remembered  the  first  Napoleon.  He 
mimicked  Haydn's  style  of  conversation,  violin  in  hand,  as 
though  he  had  been  intimate  with  him  too.  Yet  this  was 
in  1859,  and  Haydn  died  in  1809. 

"  Gif  me  a  sobjech,"  says  Haydn.  "  Zo  !  — here  —  Tra- 
la-doi-e-dee-dee,  etc.,  etc.  Zat  will  do,  mein  freund.  Haydn 
—  make  you  on  zat  sobjech  —  a  beautiful  melody,  and  work 
it  wonderful ;  gif  you  him  a  start  off,  he  do  all  the  rest. 
No  quartet  like  the  Haydn  quartet,  my  young  freund — he 
is  the  great  master  of  the  string  instrument  —  he  knows  the 
just  combinazione  —  he  gif  all  their  due.  Spohr  he  all  first 
fiddle  —  he  make  all  de  rest  lacqueys  to  first  fiddle.  Men- 
delssohn he  make  an  orchestra  of  his  quartet.  Beethoven 
vonderful  always.  Mozart  he  learn  all  of  Haydn  —  he  come 
after  him  and  die  before  him.  He  never  write  quartet  better 
zan  de  Papa  Haydn  —  he  find  new  ideas  and  he  write  new 
things  —  he  great  master  of  vat  you  call  de  form  —  of  his 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


37 


composition  —  but  in  de  string  quartet  Haydn  ze  great 
creator  —  a  Brince  — a  real  Brince  and  founder  of  ze  quartet 
art ! " 

Venua  loved  the  violin,  and  his  impromptu  lectures  upon 
it  taught  me  much — always  characteristic,  humorous,  genial, 
and  to  the  point. 

"If  you  want  to  make  a  man  irritable,  discontented, 
restless,  miserable,  give  him  a  violin." 

"Why?"  said  I. 

"  Because,"  he  replied,  —  and  I  will  now  resume  to  some 
extent  the  use  of  my  own  language, —  "  the  violin  is  the 
most  exacting  and  inexorable  of  non-human  things.  A  loose 
joint  somewhere  and  he  goes  '  tubby  '  (a  term  used  to  ex- 
press a  dull  vibration),  a  worn  finger-board  and  he  squeaks, 
a  bridge  too  high  and  his  note  grows  hard  and  bitter,  or  too 
low  and  he  whizzes,  or  too  forward  and  one  string  goes 
loud,  or  too  backward  and  two  strings  go  soft  and  weak  ; 
and  the  sound-post  (/.<?.,  the  little  peg  which  bears  the  strain 
on  the  belly  and  back),  mein  Gott !  dat  is  de  Teffell."  But, 
correcting  himself,  he  added,  "  No,  the  French  are  right, 
they  call  it  the  soul  of  the  violin,  Vdme  du  violon ;  and  it  is 
the  soul,  —  if  that  is  not  right,  all  the  fiddle  goes  wrong. 
A  man  may  sit  the  whole  morning  worrying  the  sound-post 
a  shade  this  way  or  that,  and  at  last,  in  despair,  he  will  give 
it  up  ;  then  he  will  go  to  the  bridge  and  waste  his  whole 
afternoon  fidgeting  it  about,  and  then  he  will  give  that  up. 
A  hair's-breadth  this  way  with  the  bridge — oh!  the  fourth 
string  is  lovely  ;  but,  bah  !  the  second  and  third  are  killed  ; 
a  little  back  then,  and  now  the  fourth  is  dead,  and  the 
chanterelle  {i.e.,  fii"st  string)  sings  like  a  lark —  misery  !  it 
is  the  only  string  vat  sing  at  all.  Give  him  a  fiddle  !  "  cried 
the  old  gentleman,  gesticulating;  "yes,  give  him  a  fiddle, 
it  will  make  him  mad  !  " 

Interspersed  with  such  droll  exaggerations  were  excellent 
hints,  such  as,  "Leave  your  bridge  and  your  sound-post 
alone  if  ever  you  get  the  fiddle  to  sound  near  right ;  don't 
change  your  bridge  unless  you  are  absolutely  obliged  — 
sound-board,  neck,  head,  nut,  everything,  but  not  the 
bridge ;  a  fiddle  and  a  bridge  that  have  lived  for  years 
together  love  each  other  as  man  and  wife  ;  let  them  alone, 
my  young  freund,  vy  make  mischief? "  and  old  Venua's 
eye  twinkled,  as  he  chuckled  at  his  own  joke,  and  never 
ceased  talking  and  flourishing  his  arms. 


3S  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

It  was  Venua  who  first  taught  me  about  the  fabric  of 
the  violin  what  my  old  master,  Oury,  —  who  was  a  pupil  of 
Mori,  —  first  made  me  feel  about  violin-playing,  —  a  tender 
love  and  sympathy  for  the  instrument  as  well  as  the  art. 

What  was  Venua's  connection  with  Cambridge  I  never 
could  make  out.  He  seemed  independent.  He  had  long 
ceased  to  teach  or  play,  yet  he  was  frequently  away,  and 
appeared  only  at  intervals,  always  retaining  the  same  lodg- 
ings at  Cambridge,  aud  generally  giving  me  a  call  when  he 
was  in  town.  When  I  came  up,  about  a  year  after  leaving 
the  University,  for  my  voluntary  theological  examination. 
I  inquired  for  my  old  friend  Venua  ;  but  he  was  gone,  and 
no  one  could  give  me  any  news  of  him.  I  never  saw  him 
again. 

From  the  time  that  I  entered  the  Church  I  have  never 
played  to  anv  real  purpose.  I  resolved  to  make  that  sacri- 
fice, and  no  subsequent  reflection  has  led  me  to  repent  of  my 
decision.  I  could  never  have  played  the  violin  by  halves, 
and,  had  I  come  up  to  London  and  entered  the  Church  in 
the  character  of  a  fiddling  parson,  I  should  in  all  probabil- 
ity never  have  got  credit  for,  or  applied  myself  seriously  to 
win,  any  other  position.  At  all  events  I  should  have  been 
heavily  weighted  and  laid  myself  open  to  many  temptations. 
I  should  always  have  been  coming  West  in  search  of  musi- 
cal society  and  distraction,  and  people  would  have  said,  as 
my  caricaturists  continue  to  say,  "  He  should  have  stuck  to 
the  one  thing  which  he  could  do  well,  and  not  meddled 
with  theology."  These  good  people  sometimes  gave  me 
credit  for  having  made  an  heroic  sacrifice.  They  knew 
nothing  about  it.  The  sacrifice  I  made  was  a  very  small 
one.  From  the  age  of  eight  to  the  age  of  twenty-three  I 
had  played  the  fiddle  in  season  and  out  of  season.  Applause 
had  lost  its  charm  for  me.  I  was  hardened  to  flattery. 
My  own  critical  taste  disenchanted  me  with  my  own  per- 
formances. Nothing  but  the  best  suited  me.  and  I  knew  I 
never  could  attain  to  that  as  an  executant  myself,  because 
I  never  could  take  up  the  violin  professionally.  Then. 
fiddling  was  not  my  only  taste.  I  had  a  passion  for  oratory, 
for  literature,  for  the  study  of  human  nature,  and  for  church 
work.  ^For  a  time  my  new  parochial  sphere,  with  its 
special  enthusiasms,  expelled  everything  else. 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


39 


CHAPTER  IV 

HEARING    MUSIC. 

WOULD  you  rather  be  blind  or  deaf?  Most  people 
will  illogically  reply,  "  Neither  ;  "  but  when  pressed 
nine  out  often  will  be  found  to  answer,  "  Leave  me 
the  sight  of  my  eyes  —  let  me  be  deaf."  Yet  all  experience 
shows  that  they  are  wrong.  Deafness  tries  the  temper  more, 
isolates  more,  unfits  for  social  converse,  cuts  off  from  the 
world  of  breathing,  emotional  activity,  tenfold  more  than 
blindness.  There  is  something  as  yet  unanalyzed  about  sound, 
which  doubles  and  intensifies  at  all  points  the  sense  of  living  ; 
when  we  hear  we  are  somehow  more  alive  than  when  we 
see.  Apart  from  sound  the  outward  world  has  a  dream- 
like and  unreal  look  ;  we  only  half  believe  in  it ;  we  miss 
at  each  moment  what  it  contains.  It  presents,  indeed, 
innumerable  pictures  of  still-life  ;  but  these  refuse  to  yield 
up  half  their  secrets.  If  any  one  is  inclined  to  doubt  this, 
let  him  stop  his  ears  with  cotton  wool  for  five  minutes,  and 
sit  in  the  room  with  some  intelligent  friend  who  enjoys  the 
full  use  of  his  ears,  and  at  the  end  of  five  or  ten  minutes 
let  the  two  compare  notes.  Of  course  we  must  suppose 
that  both  are  doing  nothing,  except  the  one  taking  stock  of 
his  loss,  and  the  other  taking  stock  of  his  gain. 

I  sit,  then,  in  my  chair  stone-deaf.  I  look  up  at  the  pict- 
ures on  the  wall,  —  a  man  driving  a  goat,  a  hay-stack,  and 
somepigs, —  an  engraving  of  Millais'  "  Black  Brunswicker." 
I  am  tired  of  the  sight  of  it.  I  notice  the  bird  on  his  perch  ; 
his  mouth  is  wide  open,  he  looks  to  me  as  if  he  were  in  a 
fit.  I  point  at  him  in  an  alarmed  manner  ;  my  friend  shakes 
his  head  with  a  smile,  —  the  bird's  only  singing.  I  can't 
say  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  for  I  cannot  hear  anything.  Pres- 
ently my  friend  rises  and  goes  to  the  door,  opens  it ;  what 
on  earth  for?  Why,  in  jumps  the  cat.  I  suppose  he  heard 
it  outside  ;  it  might  have  mewed  till  doomsday  as  far  as  my 
ears  were  concerned.    My  strange  companion  has  no  sooner 


4° 


MEM  OKIES   OF  A    MCSICAL   LIFE. 


sat  down  on  his  chair  than  he  jumps  up  as  if  stung.  He 
points  out,  in  answer  to  my  bewildered  look,  that  the  legs 
are  loose  ;  he  must  have  heard  them  creak.  I  suppose.  Then 
he  goes  up  to  the  clock,  and  begins  winding  it  up  ;  he  must 
have  noticed  that  it  had  left  off  ticking.  I  might  not  have 
found  that  out  for  hours.  Another  start!  —  he  rushes  from 
the  room,  I  follow  :  the  maid  has  spilt  the  coal-scuttle  all 
down  the  stairs  ;  he  probably  heard  the  smash.  My  wife 
might  have  fallen  downstairs  and  broken  her  neck,  and  I 
should  have  known  nothing  about  it.  No  sooner  are  we 
alone  again  than  he  once  more  rises.  I  know  not  why  ;  but 
I  perceive  he  is  met  at  the  door  by  some  one  who  has  called 
him  :  it  is  of  no  use  for  any  one  to  call  me. 

There  happens  to  be  a  kettle  on  the  fire,  and  at  a  par- 
ticulai  moment  my  prudent  friend  rises.  I  should  never 
have  thought  of  it,  —  the  kettle  is  going  to  boil  over  ;  he 
hears.  All  this  is  insupportable.  I  am  being  left  out  of 
life  :  it  is  worse  than  being  shut  up  in  the  dark.  I  tear  the 
wool  out  of  my  ears  long  before  the  expiration  of  the  ten 
minutes,   and   my  friend  addresses  me  as  follows  :  — 

■•  I  pass  over  the  canary,  the  cat.  the  chair,  the  coal- 
scuttle, and  the  kettle.  You  happened  to  find  out  about 
them  a  day  after  the  fair  by  using  your  eyes  ;  but.  besides  all 
this,  of  how  much  vivid  life  were  you  deprived.  —  how  many 
details  of  consciousness,  how  manvavenues  of  thought,  were 
lost  to  you  in  less  than  ten  minutes  !  As  I  sat  I  could  hear 
your  favorite  nocturne  of  Chopin  being  played  in  the  next 
room.  Perhaps  vou  did  not  know  it  was  raining  ;  nor  should 
I  have  noticed  it,  only  I  heard  it  on  the  skylight  I  there- 
fore rang  the  bell,  ordered  a  trap-door  open  in  the  roof  to  be 
shut,  and  sent  the  carriage  for  a  lady  who  would  have  other- 
wise had  to  walk  home.  You  did  not  notice  a  loud  crack 
behind  you  ;  but.  in  fact,  a  hot  coal  flew  out  of  the  fire,  and 
I  seized  it  in  time  to  prevent  mischief.  The  postman's  knock 
reminded  me  of  some  letters  I  ought  to  write,  and  I  made  a 
note  of  them.  The  band  playing  outside  put  me  in  mind  of 
some  concert-tickets  I  had  promised  to  send.  A  neighbor- 
ing church-bell  reminded  me  of  the  fact  that  it  was 
Wednesday,  and  about  a  quarter  to  eleven  o'clock.  Punch 
and  Judy,  heard  in  the  distance,  reminded  me  of  the  children, 
and  some  tovs  I  had  promised.  I  could  hear  the  distant 
whistle  of  a  train.    The  pleasant  crackling  of  the  fire  behind 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


41 


me  was  most  genial.  I  let  a  poor  bee  out  who  was  buzzing 
madly  upon  the  window-pane.  I  heard  a  ring  at  the  street- 
bell  ;  presently  I  heard  a  well-known  voice  in  the  hall.  I 
knew  who  had  arrived — I  knew  who  met  him;  I  could 
shrewdly  conjecture  where  they  went  together,  and  I  guessed 
not  unnaturally  that  the  children's  lessons  would  be  neg- 
lected that  morning,  since  a  far  more  agreeable  companion 
had  stepped  in  to  monopolize  the  eldest  daughter.  Of  all 
which  things,  my  poor  friend,  you  knew  nothing,  because 
your  ears  were  stuffed  with  cotton  wool." 

Alas !  too  many  of  us  go  through  life  with  our  ears 
stuffed  with  cotton  wool.  Some  persons  can  hear,  but  not 
well :  others  can  hear  common  sounds  and  musical  sounds, 
and  no  one  would  suspect  in  them  any  defect,  until  it  some 
day  turns  out  that  they  do  not  know  the  difference  between 
"  God  save  the  Queen"  and  "  Auld  lang  syne."  Thus  we 
reach  the  distinction  between  the  common  ear  and  the  mu- 
sical ear.  Then,  in  connection  with  the  musical  ear,  there 
are  mysteries.  Some  cannot  hear  sounds  lower  than  a  cer- 
tain note  ;  others  cannot  hear  them  higher  than  a  certain 
note,  as  musical  sounds. 

The  mystery  of  the  musical  ear  has  not  been  solved.  Yet 
some  things  are  known  about  it.  There  is  probably  no  ear 
so  radically  defective — except  a  deaf  ear — as  to  be  inca- 
pable of  a  certain  musical  training.  The  curate  who  arrives 
in  a  High  Church  parish  without  a  notion  of  the  right  note 
to  intone  upon,  and  with  the  vaguest  powers  of  singing  it 
when  it  is  given  him,  in  a  few  months  learns  to  take  fairly 
the  various  pitches  in  the  service. 

But  still  the  question  remains,  —  a  physiological  one,  — 
why  is  one  ear  musical  and  another  not?  Professor  Helm- 
holtz,  whose  discoveries  in  the  sound- world  are  only  com- 
parable to  the  discoveries  of  Newton  in  the  world  of  light, 
has  put  forth  an  ingenious  theory  somewhat  to  this  effect : 
He  discovered  within  the  ear,  and  soaked  in  a  sensitive 
fluid,  rows  and  rows  of  microscopic  nerves,  —  several  hun- 
dred in  number, — each  one  of  which,  like  the  string  of  a 
pianoforte,  he  believed  vibrated  to  some  note  ;  therefore,  we 
were  to  infer  that  just  as  a  note  sung  outside  a  piano  will 
set  up  in  the  corresponding  wire  a  sympathetic  vibration, 
so  any  sound  or  sounds  in  the  outer  world  represented  by  a 
nerve  wire,  or  nerves  in  the  ear,  could  be  heard  by  the  ear ; 


42 


MEMORIES   OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE. 


and,  as  a  consequence,  I  suppose  any  absence  of  or  defect 
in  these  internal  nerve  wires  would  prevent  us  from  hear- 
ing the  sound  as  others  better  constituted  would  hear  it. 

The  next  direct  question  of  musical  ear  now  becomes  one 
of  inherited  tendency  and  special  training.  The  musical 
ear  is  the  ear  that  has  learned  —  by  constantly  using  the 
same  intervals  —  to  recognize  the  tones  and  semitones  of 
the  usual  scale,  and  to  regard  all  variations  of  quarter-tones 
as  exceptions  and  subtleties  not  to  be  taken  account  of  in 
the  general  construction  of  melody  and  harmony.  Now, 
our  octave,  and  our  division  of  the  octave  into  tones  and 
semitones,  is  not  artificial,  but  natural,  founded  as  much 
upon  certain  laws  of  sound  vibration  as  our  notation  (if  I 
may  say  so)  of  color  is  founded  upon  the  laws  of  light- 
vibration.  But  although  the  selection  of  eight  notes  with 
their  semitones  is  the  natural  and  scientific  scale,  seeing 
that  the  ear  is  capable  of  hearing  impartially  vast  numbers 
of  other  vibrations  of  sound  which  produce  vast  numbers  of 
other  intervals,  quarter-notes,  etc.,  what  we  have  to  do  in 
training  the  musical  ear  is  just  to  harp  on  the  intervals 
which  compose  the  musical  scale  in  various  keys,  and  on 
these  only.  In  this  way  the  ear  gets  gradually  weaned 
from  sympathy  with  what  is  out  of  tune,  ceases  to  be  dog- 
like or  savage-like,  and  becomes  the  cultured  organ  for 
recognizing  the  natural  order  and  progression  of  those 
measured  and  related  vibrations  which  we  call  musical 
sound.  Of  course  a  tendency  like  this  can  be  inherited 
just  as  much  as  any  other,  and  in  almost  all  cases  it  can  be 
improved  and  cultivated. 

CONCERTS. 

Some  people  enjoy  themselves  at  concerts.  But  "  some 
people"  and  "  concerts"  are  vague  terms.  You  must  go 
with  the  right  people,  and  you  must  go  to  the  right  con- 
certs. These  right  conditions  will,  of  course,  vary  accord- 
ing to  taste  and  cultivation.  The  right  people  for  you  are 
in  all  cases  the  people  with  whom  you  are  musically  in 
sympathy.  The  right  concerts  for  you  are  the  concerts  you 
can  at  least  in  some  measure  enjoy  and  understand.  The 
classical  pedant  sneers  at  people  who  delight  in  ballad  con- 
certs and  hate  Wagner,  but  the  greatest  composers  have  not 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


43 


been  above  ballads  ;  and,  although  there  are  bad  ballads,  yet 
the  characteristics  of  a  ballad  —  namely,  that  it  should  be 
lyrical,  simple,  and  easily  understood  —  are  not  bad  char- 
acteristics. Some  of  the  greatest  men  have  been  infinite 
losers  because  they  happened  to  be  generally  unintelligible, 
whilst  inferior  people  have  exercised  an  influence  out  of 
proportion  to  their  merits,  simply  because  they  made  them- 
selves generally  understood.  And  be  it  observed  that  this 
element  of  intelligibility  is  one  common  to  the  ballad  and 
all  the  greatest  works  of  art.  The  greatest  men  all  "strike 
home."  The  transfiguration  is  simple ;  so  is  the  Moses 
of  Michael  Angelo.  So  is  Handel's  "  Messiah  "  taken  as  a 
w  hole.  So  is  the  "  Elijah  "  of  Mendelssohn.  They  are  a 
great  deal  more  than  simple,  but  they  are  that.  Let  me 
revive  a  scene,  fresh,  doubtless,  in  the  memory  of  many  now 
living,  in  which  the  hearing  of  music  in  public  probably 
reached  its  climax.  I  allude  to  the  production  of  Mendels- 
sohn's "Elijah"  at  the  Birmingham  festival  of  1S46,  upon 
which  occasion  Mendelssohn  himself  wielded  the  conduc- 
tor's baton. 

On  that  memorable  August  morning  in  the  year  1S46, 
when,  punctual  to  the  minute,  Felix  Mendelssohn  stepped 
into  the  conductor's  seat,  and,  facing  the  immense  audience 
assembled  in  the  noble  Town  Hall  of  Birmingham,  was 
received  with  a  storm  of  applause  which  was  taken  up  and 
redoubled  by  the  chorus  and  orchestra,  how  little  did  that 
vast  audience  know  that  in  little  more  than  a  year  from  that 
time  the  heart  of  the  great  composer  would  have  ceased  to 
beat!  That  day,  we  must  always  think,  was  the  crowning 
moment  of  his  life,  and  that  great  oratorio  seems  to  us  the 
culmination  of  his  mighty  musical  and  dramatic  faculty. 
All  those  who  were  present  declare  that  that  first  public 
performance  was  one  never  to  be  forgotten  ;  the  novelty 
of  treatment,  the  startling  effects,  the  enchanting  subjects, 
the  prodigious  daring  of  some  of  the  situations,  the  heavenly 
melodies  which  have  since  become  musical  watchwords, 
and,  above  all,  the  presence  of  the  composer,  who  sent  an 
electric  thrill  through  the  room,  and  inspired  chorus,  band, 
and  singers  with  the  same  lofty  enthusiasm  which  made  him 
so  great  and  irresistible  in  achievement,  —  all  this  may  now, 
alas !  be  remembered,  but  can  never  be  reproduced.  It 
made  the  hearing  of  the  music  of  "  Elijah  "  for  the  first  time  a 


44 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


perfectly  typical  occasion,  and  one  whose  conditions,  as  far 
as  they  are  realizable,  should  never  cease  to  be  striven  after. 

There  is  a  phrase,  "  I  was  carried  away  by  the  music." 
That  expression  is  true  to  feeling;  it  means,  "When  I 
heard  this  or  that  I  ceased  to  be  affected  by  the  outward 
things  or  thoughts  which  a  moment  before  moved  me.  I 
entered  a  world  of  other  feeling,  or,  what  I  before  possessed 
was  so  heightened  and  changed  that  I  seemed  to  have  been 
'  carried  away'  from  the  old  thing  in  a  moment."  But  it 
would  be  still  truer  to  say,  not  "  music  carried  me  away," 
but  "  music  carried  away,  or  changed,  the  mood,  and  with 
the  significance  of  the  things  which  occupied  me  in  that 
mood.*' 

The  easy  command  over  the  emotions  possessed  by  sound, 
and  elaborated  by  the  art  of  music,  is  due  to  the  direct  im- 
pact of  the  air-waves  upon  the  drum  of  the  ear,  which 
collects  them  and  sends  them  to  the  seat  of  consciousness  in 
the  brain  by  means  of  the  auditory  nerve.  The  same,  of 
course,  is  true  of  the  waves  of  color  upon  the  eye,  scent 
upon  the  nose,  and  vibrations  of  touch  taken  by  the  brain 
even  from  the  most  distant  nerve  in  the  body.  But  the 
auditory  nerve  has  in  some  things  a  strange  advantage  and 
prerogative  of  power  over  the  others.  First,  the  distance 
from  the  ear  to  the  brain  is  shorter  than  that  of  any  other  of 
the  sensitive  surfaces,  so  the  time  taken  to  convey  the  im- 
pressions of  sound  is  less,  and  therefore  the  impact  more 
direct.  This  measured  by  time  is  infinitesimal,  but  measured 
by  emotional  effect  it  counts  for  much.  Secondly,  the  vibra- 
tions of  sound  as  distinguished  from  the  vibrations  of  light, 
and  even  the  vibrations  of  touch,  which  are,  after  all,  differ- 
ently local,  —  the  vibrations  of  sound  induce  a  sympathetic 
vibration  in  every  nerve  in  the  body  ;  they  set  it  going,  in 
short,  as  the  strings  of  a  piano  are  set  going  by  the  stroke 
of  a  hammer  on  the  floor,  and  when  the  sound  is  excessive 
or  peculiar  all  the  great  ganglionic  centres  are  disturbed,  the 
diaphragm  and  many  other  nerves  and  muscles  are  influ- 
enced, the  stomach  is  affected,  the  spine  "  creeps."  as  we 
say,  the  heart  quickens  and  throbs  with  strong  beatings  in  the 
throat.  Thus  a  curiously  sympathetic  action  is  set  up 
through  this  physical  peculiarity  which  sound  has  of  shak- 
ing, moving,  and  at  times  causing  to  tremble  the  human 
body. 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


45 


We  can  explain,  perhaps,  why  it  is  that  our  musical 
sensations  are  different  in  small  rooms  and  large  ones,  or, 
to  speak  more  closely,  why  the  relations  between  the  vol- 
ume of  sound  and  the  space  to  be  rilled  must  be  suitable  in 
order  to  produce  the  right  effect.  I  can  sit  close  to  a  piano 
and  listen  to  a  "  Lied  ohne  Worte."  I  can  take  in  every 
inflection  of  touch  with  ease,  not  a  refinement  is  lost ;  but 
if  I  go  to  the  end  of  a  long  room  the  impact  is  less  direct, 
the  pleasure  less  intense  ;  the  player  must  then  exaggerate 
all  his  effects  ;  hence  a  loss  of  refinement  and  ease.  Public 
players  and  singers  constantly  make  shipwreck  thus  in  pri- 
vate rooms.  Accustomed  to  vast  spaces  they  roar  and 
bang  until  the  audience  is  deaf,  and  the  only  reason  why 
the  unknowing  applaud  on  such  occasions,  and  the  only 
difference,  as  far  as  they  are  concerned,  between  the  pro- 
fessional and  the  amateur,  is  simply  that  the  first  is  so 
much  louder  than  the  second.  This  makes  them  clap 
their  hands  and  cry  "Bravo!"  but  in  reality  they  are 
applauding  a  defect. 

The  only  musical  sounds  which  really  master  vast  spaces, 
like  the  Albert  Hall,  are  those  of  a  mighty  organ  or  an  im- 
mense chorus.  The  Handel  Festival  choruses  are  fairly 
proportioned  to  the  Crystal  Palace  ;  but  on  one  occasion, 
when  a  terrific  thunder-storm  burst  over  Sydenham  in  the 
middle  of  "  Israel  in  Egypt,"  every  one  beneath  that  crystal 
dome  felt  that,  acoustically,  the  peal  of  thunder  wras  very 
superior  to  the  whole  power  of  the  chorus,  because  the  re- 
lation between  the  space  to  be  filled  and  the  volume  of 
sound  required  to  fill  it  was  in  better  proportion.  But 
there  is  still  something  which  has  not  yet  been  said  for 
small  sounds  in  large  places.  Transport  yourself  in  im- 
agination to  the  Albert  Hall  on  some  night  when,  as  is 
usually  the  case,  there  is  but  a  scanty  orchestra,  and  pres- 
ently a  new  mystery  of  sound  will  present  itself  to  you. 
At  first  you  will  be  disappointed.  Any  one  can  hear  that 
the  hall  is  not  properly  occupied  by  the  sound  ;  the  violins 
should  be  trebled  at  least,  several  of  the  wind  instruments 
doubled,  etc.  You  think  you  will  not  listen  to  this  charm- 
ing E  flat  symphony  of  Mozart ;  you  cannot  help  feeling 
that  you  lose  a  delicate  inflection  here,  a  staccato  there,  a 
flute  tone,  a  pianissimo  on  the  drum,  or  a  whole  piece  of 


I 


(  »•   •  • 


ke  a 

have 

lHlltJllOl 

I 

\ 

■ 

.11  of 

..  the 

■ 

itn. 

I 

■ 

I 


MEMORIES   OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE. 


47 


iia  moderately-sized  room,  —  I  lose  much  of  all  that, —  but 
I  ain  a  number  of  new  abnormal  effects,  which  also  have 
a  lower  over  certain  hidden  depths  and  distant  fastnesses 
othe  emotional  region. 

vlusic  has  a  vast  future  before  it.  We  are  only  now 
banning  to  find  out  some  of  its  uses.  With  the  one 
e:eption  of  its  obvious  and  admitted  helpfulness  as  an 
a<unct  of  religious  worship,  as  a  vehicle  for  and  incentive 
oreligious  feeling,  I  had  almost  said  that  we  had  as  yet 
c  covered  none  of  its  uses.  It  has  been  the  tov  of  the  rich  ; 
itias  often  been  a  source  of  mere  degradation  to  both  rich 
ad  poor  ;  it  has  been  treated  as  a  mere  jingle  and  noise,  — 
spplying  a  rhythm  for  the  dance,  a  kind  of  Terpsichorean 
z  i-tom,  or  serving  to  start  a  Bacchanalian  chorus,  the 
cief  feature  of  which  has  certainly  not  been  the  music. 
..-id  yet  those  who  have  their  eyes  and  ears  open  may 
rid  in  these  primitive  uses  whilst  they  run  the  hints  of 
r.isic's  future  destiny  as  a  vast  civilizer,  recreator,  health- 
or.  work-inspirer,  and  purifier  of  man's  life.  The  horse 
iws  what  he  owes  to  his  bells.  The  factory  girls  have 
n  instinctively  forced  into  singing,  finding  in  it  a  solace 
ad  assistance  in  work.  And  for  music,  the  health-giver, 
viat  an  untrodden  field  is  there  !  Have  we  never  known 
a  invalid  forget  pain  and  weariness  under  the  stimulus  of 
msic?  Have  you  never  seen  a  pale  cheek  flush  up,  a  dull 
s  sparkle,  an  alertness  and  vigor  take  possession  of  the 
viole  frame,  an  animation  succeed  to  apathy?  What  does 
a  this  mean?  It  means  a  truth  that  we  have  not  fully 
psped,  a  truth  pregnant  with  vast  results  to  body  and 
rind.  It  means  that  music  attacks  the  nervous  svstem 
erectly,  reaches  and  rouses  where  physic  and  change  of 
a"  can  neither  reach  nor  rouse. 

MUSIC    AS    A    HEALER. 

Music  wdl  some  day  become  a  powerful  and  acknowl- 
eged  therapeutic.  And  it  is  one  especiallv  appropriate  to 
tis  excited  age.  Half  our  diseases,  some  physicians  sav  all 
K  diseases,  come  from  disorder  of  the  nerves.  How  many 
is  of  the  mind  precede  the  ills  of  the  bodv  !     Boredom 

ikes  more  patients  than  fever,  want  of  interest  and  excite- 
ient,  stagnation  of  the  emotional  life,  or  the  fatigue  of  over- 


4S  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 

wrought  emotion,  lies  at  the  root  of  half  the  ill-health  of  our 
young  men  and  women.  Can  we  doubt  the  power  of  music 
to  break  up  that  stagnation  ?  Or,  again,  can  we  doubt  its 
power  to  soothe  ;  to  recreate  an  overstrained  emotional  life, 
by  bending  the  bow  the  other  way?  There  are  moods  of 
exhausted  feeling  in  which  certain  kinds  of  music  would  act 
like  poison,  just  as  whip  and  spur,  which  encourage  the 
racer  at  first,  tire  him  to  death  at  last.  There  are  other 
kinds  of  music  which  soothe,  and,  if  I  may  use  the  word, 
lubricate,  the  worn  ways  of  the  nervous  centres.  You  will 
ask  what  music  is  good  for  that?  We  reply,  judgment  and 
common-sense,  and,  above  all,  sympathy,  affectional  and 
musical  sympathy,  will  partly  be  your  guide,  but  experience 
must  decide.  Let  some  friend  well  versed  in  the  divine 
art  sit  at  the  piano,  and  let  the  tired  one  lie  on  a  couch 
and  prescribe  for  herself  or  for  himself.  This  will  happen  : 
"  Do  not  play  that  '  Tannhauser'  overture  just  now,  —  it 
wears  me  out,  I  cannot  bear  it;"  or,  "Yes  —  sing  that 
'  Du  bist  die  Ruh,'and  after  that  I  must  hear  Mendelssohn's 
'  Nocturne,'  out  of  the  '  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  ;  ' 
and  then — and  then — what  must  come  next  must  be  left 
to  the  tact  and  quick  sympathy  of  the  musician.  I  have 
known  cases  where  an  hour  of  this  treatment  did  more  good 
than  bottlefuls  of  bark  or  pailfuls  of  globules  ;  but  I  do  not 
wish  to  overstate  the  case.  I  merely  plead  for  an  unrecog- 
nized truth,  and  I  point  to  a  New  Vocation,  —  the  vocation 
of  the  Musical  Healer. 

Music  is  not  only  a  body  healer ;  it  is  a  mind  regulator. 
The  great  educational  function  of  music  remains  almost  to 
be  discovered.  The  future  mission  of  music  for  the  million 
is  the  Discipline  of  Emotion. 

What  is  the  ruin  of  art?     Ill-regulated  emotion. 

What  is  the  ruin  of  life?     Again,  ill-regulated  emotion. 

What  mars  happiness?  What  destroys  manliness?  What 
sullies  womanhood?  What  checks  enterprise?  What  spoils 
success?  Constantly  the  same,  —  ill-regulated  emotion. 
The  tongue  is  on  fire,  an  uncontrolled  and  passionate  out- 
burst swallows  up  many  virtues,  and  blots  out  weeks  of 
kindness. 

There  is  one  thing  more  important  than  knowing  self;  it 
is  governing  self.  There  is  one  thing  better  than  crushing 
impulse  ;  it  is  using  impulse.     The  life  of  the  ascetic  is  half 


MEMORIES   OE  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  49 

true,  the  life  of  the  voluptuary  is  the  other  half  true.  The 
stoic  may  be  said  to  be  blind  at  least  of  one  eye.  The  cynic 
is  very  nearly  blind  of  both,  since  the  power  and  the  passion 
and  the  splendid  uses  of  existence  are  hidden  from  him,  and 
all  these  go  wrong  in  various  ways,  from  abusing,  misusing, 
or  neglecting  the  emotional  life. 

The  Greek  was  not  far  wrong  when  he  laid  such  stress  on 
gymnastics  and  music.  Of  music,  indeed,  in  its  modern, 
exhaustive,  and  supple  developments,  as  the  language  of  the 
emotions,  he  knew  nothing  ;  but  his  faint  guess  was  with  a 
certain  fine  and  unerring  instinct  in  the  right  direction. 
Shame  upon  us  that,  in  the  blaze  of  modern  music,  we  have 
almost  missed  its  deepest  meaning !  The  Greek  at  least 
understood  how  sound  regulated  motion,  which  is,  after  all, 
onlv  the  physical  expression  of  emotion  ;  not  a  procession, 
not  a  social  gathering,  not  a  gymnasium,  nay,  not  even  an 
important  oration,  was  thought  complete  without  the  intro- 
duction of  musical  sound  ;  and  that  not  as  a  mere  jingle  or 
pastime,  but  to  regulate  the  order,  the  variety,  the  intensity 
of  bodily  motions,  actions,  and  words,  so  that  throughout 
there  might  be  an  elaborate  discipline  carried  on  through 
musical  sound,  —  a  discipline  which,  thus  learned  at  the 
schools,  met  the  Greek  again  at  every  turn  in  his  social  and 
political  life,  and  ended  by  making  his  earth-life  that  rounded 
model  of  physical  and  intellectual  harmony  and  perfection 
which  has  made  at  once  the  despair  and  wonder  of  sculp- 
tors, poets,  and  philosophers  of  all  ages. 

And  we,  living  in  the  full  development  of  this  divine  art 
of  music,  put  it  to  less  practical  uses  than  the  Greek,  who 
never  got  beyond  music  as  a  rhythmic  and  melodic  regulator 
of  dancing,  feasting  and  oratory! 

Music  rouses  the  emotions.  Inward  activities,  long  dor- 
mant, or  never  before  awakened,  are  called  up,  and  become 
new  powers  within  the  breast ;  for,  remember,  emotion 
nerves  for  action.  The  stupidest  horse  that  goes  up-hill  to 
the  sound  of  bells,  the  timidest  soldier  that  marches  to 
battle  with  fife  and  drum,  the  most  delicate  girl  who  spins 
round  tireless  in  the  dance,  the  poorest  laborer  who  sings 
at  his  work,  —  anv  of  them  are  good  enough  to  prove  that 
nusic  rouses  and  sustains  emotion. 

But,  secondly,  music  disciplines  and  controls  emotion. 

That    is  the  explanation   of  the  art  of  music,  as    distin- 


c0  MEMORIES  OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE. 


guished  from  the  mere  power  of  the  musical  sound.  You 
can  rouse  with  a  stroke  ;  but  to  guide,  to  moderate,  to  con- 
trol, to  raise  and  depress,  to  combine,  to  work  out  a 
definite  scheme  involving  appropriate  relations  and  pro- 
portions of  force,  and  various  mobility,  —  for  this  you 
require  the  subtle  machinery  of  an  art,  and  the  direct 
machinery  for  stirring  up  and  regulating  emotion  is  the 
wonderful  vibratory  mechanism  created  by  the  art  of  music. 

Now,  if  music  does  really  rouse  and  then  take  in  hand 
and  rule  at  its  will,  and  thereby  teach  us  to  rule  the  emo- 
tions, it  is  obvious  that  we  are,  when  we  we  hear  music 
intelligently  and  sympathetically,  actually  cultivating  ab- 
stract habits  of  mind  which  may  after-wards  be  trans- 
ferred as  trained  forces  to  the  affairs  of  daily  life.  As 
the  study  of  Euclid  trains  the  mind  in  the  abstract,  so  the 
study  of  music  trains  the  emotions  in  the  abstract.  If  you 
want  to  touch  and  train  this  emotional  life  music  is  your 
all-powerful  ally. 

The  time-  is  not  distant  when  this  great  truth  will  be 
understood  and  practised  in  connection  with  our  toiling 
masses,  — our  artisans,  our  poor,  our  laborers,  our  degraded 
denizens  of  back  streets,  cellars,  and  foul  alleys.  There 
are  millions  whose  only  use  of  the  emotional  life  is  base, 
undisciplined,  and  degraded.  Pleasure  with  many  means 
crime ;  restraint,  the  real  handmaid  of  pleasure,  is  un- 
known ;  system,  order,  harmony  in  their  feelings,  habits  of 
self-control,  checking  the  impulses,  moderating  and  econ- 
omizing the  feelings,  guiding  them  to  powerful  purposes 
and  wise  ends  and  wholesome  joys,  of  all  this  our  masses 
are  chiefly  ignorant ;  yet,  if  what  I  have  maintained  be  true, 
all  this  music  would  mightily  help  to  teach  and  to  give. 

I  have  known  the  oratorio  of  the  "  Messiah"  draw  the  low- 
est dregs  of  Whitechapel  into  a  church  to  hear  it,  and  during 
the  performance  sobs  have  broken  forth  from  the  silent  and 
attentive  throng.  Will  any  one  say  that  for  these  people  to 
have  their  feelings  for  once  put  through  such  a  noble  and 
long-sustained  exercise  as  that  could  be  otherwise  than 
beneficial  ?  If  such  performances  of  both  sacred  and  secular 
music  were  more  frequent  we  should  have  less  drunken- 
ness, less  wife-beating,  less  spending  of  summer  gains,  less 
pauperism  in  winter.  People  get  drunk  because  they  have 
nothing   else    to  do ;  they  beat  their   wives   because    their 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


5' 


minds  are  narrow,  their  tastes  brutal,  their  emotions,  in  a 
word,  ill-regulated  ;  they  spend  their  wages  because  they 
have  no  self-control,  and  dawdle  in  public  houses,  where 
money  must  be  spent,  simply  in  the  absence  of  all  other 
resources ;  and  they  starve  in  winter  because  they  have  not 
acquired  the  habit  of  steady  work,  which  is  impossible 
without  steady  and  wholesome  recreation,  or  that  steady 
thrift  and  self-control  which  is  impossible  apart  from  dis- 
ciplined emotion. 

The  question  of  music  for  the  people  will  some  day  become 
a  great  government  question.  A  few  thousands  spent  on 
promoting  bands,  cheap  and  good,  accessible  and  respecta- 
ble, would  save  the  country  millions  in  pooi"-rates.  I  do  not 
say  that  music  will  ever  shut  up  all  our  prisons  and  work- 
houses, but  I  venture  to  believe  that,  as  a  chief  and  sovereign 
means  of  rousing,  satisfying,  and  recreating  the  emotions,  it 
would  go  far  to  diminish  the  number  of  paupers  and  crimi- 
nals. It  would  help  them  to  save,  it  would  keep  them  from 
drink,  it  would  recreate  them  wholesomely,  and  teach  them 
to  govern  their  feelings,  —  to  use,  and  not  invariably  abuse, 
their  emotions. 

One  Saturday  afternoon  I  stood  outside  a  public  house, 
and  saw  the  groups  of  men  standing  round  the  door.  Those 
that  came  to  the  door  did  not  enter ;  those  who  came 
forth  with  lighted  pipes  paused  ;  a  slatternly  girl  or  two, 
with  a  ragged  child  in  her  arms ;  a  wife  who  had  followed 
her  husband  to  look  after  the  Saturday  wages,  which  were 
going  straight  to  the  gin-shop  ;  a  costermonger,  with  his 
cart,  drew  up  ;  the  idle  cabmen  came  across  the  road ;  even 
a  few  dirty,  stone-throwing,  dog-worrying  boys  ceased  their 
sport;  and  two  or  three  milliners'  "Hands"  stood  still. 
And  what  was  it  all  about?  I  blush  for  my  country  !  A 
wretched  cornet,  with  a  harp,  no  two  strings  of  which  were 
in  tune,  the  harpist  trying  wildly  to  follow  "  The  last  rose 
of  summer"  with  but  two  chords,  and  always  in  with  the 
wrong  one.  The  weather  was  bitterly  cold  :  the  men's 
hands  were  in  their  pockets,  the  girls  shivered  ;  but  they 
were  all  taking  their  solace.  This  was  the  best  music  they 
could  get ;  it  seemed  to  soothe  and  refresh  them.  Oh  that 
I  could  have  led  those  people  to  some  near  winter  pavilion, 
or  even  a  cold  garden,  where  they  could  have  walked  about 
and  heard  a  popular   selection   of  tunes,  an  overture,  any- 


52 


MEMORIES   OE  A   MUSICAL  LIEE. 


thing,  by  a  common  but  excellent  German  band  !  What 
good  that  would  have  done  them  !  How  they  would  have 
enjoyed  it !  And  supposing  that  every  Saturday  they  could 
look  forward  to  it,  admission  twopence  apiece,  the  men 
would  be  there  with  their  wives  and  children  ;  they  would 
spend  less  on  the  whole  family  than  they  would  have  squan- 
dered on  themselves  in  one  drunken  afternoon.  They  could 
meet  their  friends,  have  their  chat  and  glass  of  ale,  or  cup 
of  coffee,  in  the  winter  garden  ;  they  would  go  home  sober ; 
and  being  satisfied,  recreated,  having  had  their  exercise  and 
company,  would  be  more  likely  to  go  to  bed  early  than  to 
get  drunk  late. 

Oh  !    what  a  vast,  what  a  beneficent  future  has  music  in 
the  time  to  come  ! 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE.  53 


CHAPTER  V. 

OLD    VIOLINS    AND    THEIR    MAKERS. 

THE  Construction,  the  History,  the  Sound  of  the  violin 
would  make  a  romantic  work  in  three  volumes  as 
sensational  as,  and  far  more  instructive  than,  most 
novels.*  The  very  pine-wood  smells  good,  to  begin  with. 
The  forests  of  the  Southern  Tyrol,  which  now  teem  with 
saplings,  when  the  old  violins  were  made,  from  1520  to 
1750,  still  abounded  in  those  ancient  trees,  so  eagerly  and 
often  vainly  sought  out  by  modern  builders,  and  which  the 
old  viol-makers  found  to  possess  the  finest  acoustic  proper- 
ties. 

The  mighty  timbers  were  felled  in  late  summer.  They 
came  in  loose,  floating  rafts  from  the  banks  of  the  Garda  ; 
they  floated  down  the  Mincio  to  Mantua.  Brescia  was  in 
the  midst  of  them.  From  Como  they  found  their  way  to 
Milan,  and  from  Lake  Maggiore  direct,  via  the  Ticino  and 
the  Po,  to  Cremona. 

What  market  days  were  those  !  What  a  timber  feast  to 
select  from,  and  what  cunning  lovers  and  testers  of  wood 
were  the  old  viol-makers,  the  fathers  of  the  violin  !  The 
rough  heaps  of  pine,  pear,  lemon,  and  ash,  beloved  of  the 
Brescians ;  of  maple  and  sycamore,  preferred  by  the  Cre- 
monese,  lay  steaming  dry  and  hard  in  a  few  hours  beneath 
the  sun  of  the  southern  Alps. 

Before  a  beam  was  bought  the  master  passed  his  hand 
over  the  surface.  He  could  tell  by  touch  the  density  of  its 
fibre.  Then  he  would  take  two  equal  slips  of  deal  and 
weigh  them,  and  judge  of  their  porousness.  The  very  appear- 
ance of  the  wood  would  guide  him  to  its  probable  vibra- 
tional powers.  Then  he  would,  perchance,  before  leaving 
the  market,  cut  strips  of  equal  length,  and  elicit  their  relative 
intensities  by  striking  their  tongues.  He  would  often  select 
for  a  definite  purpose,  looking  for  a  soft,  porous  piece,  or  a 
specially  hard  and  close-fibred  grain,  —  a  certain  appearance 


54 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


he  would  instinctively  associate  with  rare  acoustic  proper- 
ties. The  seller  would  be  eager  to  find  the  pieces,  useless 
to  other  customers,  invaluable  to  an  Andreas  Amati,  for  he 
was  sure  that  the  viol-maker  would  buy  what  suited  him  at 
a  long  price.  After  the  lapse  of  nearly  two  centuries  we 
can  trace  such  favorite  beams  by  peculiar  stains,  freckles 
and  grain ings.  When,  after  cutting  up  a  dozen  trees  once  in 
two  or  three  years,  a  piece  of  fine  acoustic  wood  was  found,  it 
was  kept  for  the  master's  best  work.  The  same  pine-beam 
will  crop  up  in  the  bellies  of  Stradivarius  at  an  interval  of 
years.  Another  can  be  traced  in  the  violins  of  Joseph 
Guarnerius,  and  after  his  death  Carlo  Bergonzi  got  hold  of 
the  remnants  of  it,  and  we  detect  it  by  a  certain  stain  in  the 
fibre. 

The  anxiety  to  retain  every  particle  of  a  precious  piece 
of  wood  is  seen  in  the  subtle  and  delicate  patching  and 
repatching  of  backs  and  bellies.  The  seams  are  only  dis- 
coverable by  a  microscope,  so  perfect  is  the  cabinet-work. 
How  different  from  the  modern  maker  at  Madrid,  whom 
Tarisio  relates  as  having  to  repair  a  damaged  Stradivarius, 
and,  rinding  the  belly  cracked,  sent  it  home  with  a  brand-new 
one  of  his  own  manufacture  ! 

The  properties  of  fine  violin  wood  are  very  mysterious. 
Only  to  be  surrounded  by  a  selection  of  fine  violins  is  an 
experience  which  cannot  be  forgotten.  Sit  in  the  room 
with  them,  with  your  eyes  shut,  and,  although  you  may  not 
touch  one  of  them,  you  will  soon  be  aware  of  ghostly  pres- 
ences. 

THE    ANATOMY    OF    THE    VIOLIN. 

Let  us  now  look  at  the  violin  anatomically.  It  is  a  mira- 
cle of  construction,  and  as  it  can  be  taken  to  pieces,  put  to- 
gether, patched,  and  indefinitely  repaired,  it  is  almost  in- 
destructible. It  is,  as  one  may  say,  as  light  as  a  feather, 
and  as  strong  as  a  horse.  It  is  composed  of  fifty-eight  or 
seventy  pieces  of  wood.  Wood  about  as  thick  as  a  half- 
crown,  by  exquisite  adjustments  of  parts  and  distribution  of 
strain,  resists  for  several  centuries  an  enormous  pressure. 
The  belly  of  soft  deal,  the  back  of  hard  sycamore,  are  united 
by  six  sycamore  ribs,  supported  by  twelve  blocks  with 
linings. 

It  appears  that  the  quick  vibrations  of  the   hard  wood, 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


55 


married  to  the  slower  sound-waves  of  the  soft,  produce  the 
mellow  but  reedy  timbre  of  the  good  violin.  If  all  the  wood 
were  hard,  you  would  get  the  tone  light  and  metallic  ;  if 
all  the  wood  were  soft  it  would  be  muffled  and  tubby. 

There  is  every  conceivable  variety  of  fibre,  both  in  hard 
and  soft  wood.  The  thickness  of  back  and  belly  is  not  uni- 
form ;  each  should  be  thicker  towards  the  middle.  But  how 
thick,  and  shaved  thin  in  what  proportions  towards  the 
sides?  The  cunning  workman  alone  knows.  As  a  rule  if 
the  wood  be  hard  he  will  cut  it  thin  ;  if  soft,  thick  ;  but  how 
thin  and  how  thick,  and  exactly  where,  is  nowhere  writ 
down,  nor  can  be,  because  nowhere  for  handy  reference  are 
recorded  the  densities  of  all  pine  and  pear  and  sycamore 
and  maple  planks  that  have  or  shall  come  into  the  maker's 
hands. 

The  sound-bar  is  a  strip  of  pine  wood  running  obliquely 
under  the  left  foot  of  the  bridge.  It  not  only  strengthens 
the  belly  for  the  prodigious  pressure  of  the  four  strings, 
whose  direction  it  is  made  to  follow,  for  vibrational  reasons, 
but  it  is  the  nervous  system  of  the  violin.  It  has  to  be  cut 
and  adjusted  to  the  whole  framework.  A  slight  mistake  in 
position,  a  looseness,  an  inequality  or  roughness  of  finish, 
will  produce  that  hollow,  teeth-on-edge  growl  called  the 
"  wolf." 

It  takes  the  greatest  cunning  and  a  life  of  practical  study 
to  know  how  long,  how  thick,  and  exactly  where,  the  sound- 
bar  should  be  in  each  instrument.  The  health  and  morale  of 
many  an  old  violin  has  been  impaired  by  its  nervous  system 
being  ignorantly  tampered  with.  Every  old  violin,  with 
the  exception  of  the  "  Pucelle,"  has  had  its  sound-bar  re- 
placed, or  it  would  never  have  endured  the  increased  tight- 
ness of  strings  brought  in  with  our  modern  pitch.  Many 
good  forgeries  have  thus  been  exposed,  for,  in  taking  the 
reputed  Stradivarius  to  pieces,  the  rough,  clumsy  work  in- 
side, contrasting  with  the  exquisite  finish  of  the  old  masters, 
betrays  at  once  the  coarseness  of  a  body  that  never  really 
held  the  soul  of  a  Cremona. 

The  sound-post,  a  little  pine  prop  like  a  short  bit  of  cedar 
pencil,  is  the  soul  of  the  violin.  It  is  placed  upright  inside, 
about  one-eighth  of  an  inch  to  the  back  of  the  right  foot  of 
the  bridge,  and  through  it  pass  all  the  heart-throbs  or  vibra- 
tions generated  between  the  back  and  the  belly.     There  the 


56 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


short  waves  and  the  long  waves  meet  and  mingle.  It  is 
the  material  throbbing  centre  of  that  pulsating  air  column, 
defined  by  the  walls  of  the  violin,  but  propagating  those 
mystic  sound-waves  that  ripple  forth  in  sweetness  upon  ten 
thousand  ears. 

Days  and  weeks  may  be  spent  on  the  adjustment  of  this 
tiny  sound-post.  Its  position  exhausts  the  patience  of  the 
repairer,  and  makes  the  joy  or  the  misery  of  the  player. 
As  a  rough  general  rule  the  high-built  violin  will  take  it 
nearer  the  bridge  than  the  low-built,  and  a  few  experiments 
will  at  once  show  the  relation  of  the  "  soul  "  to  tightness, 
mellowness,  or  intensity  of  sound.  For  the  amateur  there 
is  but  one  motto  :  "  Leave  well  alone." 

The  prodigious  strain  of  the  strings  is  resisted  first  by  the 
arch  of  the  belly,  then  by  the  ribs,  strengthened  with  the 
upright  blocks,  the  pressure  amongst  which  is  evenly  dis- 
tributed by  the  linings  which  unite  them  ;  and,  lastly,  by  the 
supporting  sound-bar,  sound-post,  and  back.  Many  people, 
on  observing  the  obvious  join  between  the  neck  and  the  head 
of  old  violins,  fancy  that  the  head  is  not  the  original.  It  is 
the  neck  that  is  new.  All  the  necks  of  old  violins  have  thus 
been  lengthened,  and  the  old  heads  refixed,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  Corelli's  finger-board  will  not  do  for  Paganini, 
and  mightier  execution  requires  an  ampler  field  for  its 
eccentric  excursions. 

The  scroll,  or  head,  fitted  with  its  four  simple  screws  of 
ebony,  box,  or  rosewood,  is  the  physiognomy  of  the  violin. 
At  first  all  fiddle-heads  look  alike,  as  do  all  pug-dogs,  or 
all  negroes  ;  and,  indeed,  England,  Wales,  Italy,  Holland, 
and  most  other  countries  have  their  general  faces  ;  so  have 
violins  ;  but  a  practised  eye  sees  the  difference  at  a  glance. 
Look  for  half  an  hour  every  day  at  a  late  Joseph  Guarnerius, 
an  early  Nicolas  Amati,  and  a  grand  pattern  Strad.,  and 
you  will  be  surprised  that  you  could  ever  have  confounded 
their  forms.  What  is  called  the  "  throwing"  of  the  scroll 
betrays  the  master's  style  like  handwriting,  and  he  lavs 
down  his  type  in  every  curve,  groove,  and  outline.  A  keen 
eye  can  almost  see  the  favorite  tool  he  worked  with,  and 
how  his  hand  went.  These  subtleties  are  like  the  painter's 
"  touch  ;  "  they  can  hardly  be  imitated  so  as  to  deceive 
one  who  has  mastered  the  individual  work  of  the  great 
makers. 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


57 


The  ebony  finger-board  must  be  nicely  fitted,  as  also  the 
neck,  to  the  hand  of  the  player  ;  on  its  even  smoothness  and 
true  curve  depends  the  correct  stopping  of  the  notes.  You 
cannot,  for  instance,  stop  fifths  in  tune  on  a  rough  or  uneven 
finger-board.  The  button  to  which  the  tail-piece  is  fastened 
is  full  of  style,  and  not,  like  the  pegs,  a  thing  to  be  dropped 
and  changed  at  will.  It  is  a  critical  part  of  the  violin,  takes 
a  good  third  of  the  leverage  of  the  whole  strain,  is  fixed  like 
a  vice,  rooted  in  the  very  adamant  of  the  wood,  carefully 
finished,  and  cut  round,  pointed,  or  flat,  according  to  the 
taste  of  the  maker. 

The  purfling,  more  or  less  deeply  embedded,  emphasizes 
the  outline  of  the  violin.  It  is  composed  of  three  thin  strips 
of  wood,  ebony,  sometimes  whalebone,  the  centre  of  two 
white  strips.  It  is  often  more  or  less  embedded,  and  betrays 
the  workman's  taste  and  skill.  The  double  purfling  and 
purfling  in  eccentric  patterns  of  some  of  the  old  violins  is 
very  quaint,  but  a  doubtful  adjunct  to  the  tone.  But, 
strange  to  say,  prior  to  1600  appearances  were  more 
thought  of  than  tone.  The  old  guitars  and  viols  are  often 
so  profusely  carved  or  inlaid  with  tortoise-shell,  ivory,  and 
silver,  that  they  have  but  little  sound,  and  that  bad.  I  do 
not  think  that  this  has  ever  been  noticed  before  ;  but  it  is 
undoubtedly  a  fact  that  attention  to  tone  only  dates  from 
the  rise  of  the  violin  proper,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  and 
is,  in  fact,  coincident  with  the  rise  of  the  art  of  modern 
music. 

I  come  now  to  the  Cremona  varnish.  What  is  it?  About 
1760  it  disappeared,  and  never  reappeared.  All  the  Cre- 
monas  have  it.  Was  it  a  gum,  or  an  oil,  or  a  distillation 
from  some  plant,  or  some  chemical  once  largely  in  use  and 
superseded,  as  the  old  oil  lamps  have  gone  out  before  gas 
and  paraffine?  How  was  it  mixed?  Is  the  recipe  lost?  No 
one  seems  to  be  able  to  answer  these  questions  definitely. 
There  it  lies,  like  sunlit  water,  mellow,  soft,  rich  ;  varying 
in  color,  —  golden,  orange,  or  pale  red  tint  on  the  Guarne- 
rius ;  rich  gold,  deep  orange,  or  light  red  on  the  Stradi- 
varius  back,  —  and  when  it  rubs  softly  away  rather  than 
chips  off  hardly,  like  the  German  and  French  imitations,  it 
leaves  the  wood  seasoned,  impregnated,  and  fit  to  resist 
heat,  cold,  and  the  all-destroying  worm  for  ages.  Mr. 
Charles  Reade  gives  one  account  of  the  matter.     He  thinks 


^S  MEMORIES    OE  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 

the  wood,  cut  in  winter,  varnished  in  the  hot  summer 
months,  was  first  bathed  several  times  in  oil ;  thus,  he 
savs,  were  the  "  pores  of  the  wood  filled,  and  the  grain 
shown  up."  The  oil  held  in  solution  some  clear  gum. 
k'  Then  upon  this  oil  varnish,  when  dry,  was  laid  some 
heterogeneous  varnish,  namely,  a  solution  in  spirit  of  some 
sovereign,  high-colored,  pellucid,  and,  above  all,  tender 
gum."  These  gums  were  reddish-yellow,  and  yellowish- 
red,  and  are  accredited  with  coloring  the  varnish.  On  the 
other  hand,  it  must  be  stated  that,  although  the  difficulties 
in  the  amber  theory  are  great,  Mr.  Perkins,  the  eminent 
chemist,  has  discovered  amber  in  the  varnish  of  Joseph 
Guarnerius,  and  he  believes  the  coloring  to  be  derived 
from  an  herb  common  throughout  Piedmont,  and,  following 
out  his  conviction,  Mr.  Perkins  has  made  a  varnish  which 
certainly  does  resemble  very  closely  the  Cremonese  hue  and 
gloss.  Dod,  who  died  in  1S30,  professed  to  have  got  the 
Ceemona  recipe,  and  whilst  employing  John  Lott  and  Ber- 
nard Fendt  to  make  his  violins,  always  varnished  them  him- 
self; and,  indeed,  his  varnish  is  very  superior,  and  his 
violins  are  highly  prized  ;  but  perhaps,  in  a  general  descrip- 
tion like  this,  to  "discuss  further  the  varnish  theory  would  be 
superfluous. 

The  bridge  of  the  violin  is  to  many  a  true  Asses'  Bridge  ; 
you  may  try  and  try  again,  and  its  true  position  will  still 
be  represented  by  an  unknown  x.  It  is  but  a  small  piece 
of  hard  boxwood,  2  inches  by  iji  in  size  ;  it  is  quaintly 
perforated  ;  it  clings  closely  to  the  violin's  belly  with  its 
two  little  thin  feet ;  is  about  as  thick,  where  thickest,  as  a 
five-shilling  piece,  thinning  steadily  towards  the  top,  which 
obeys  the  curve  of  the  finger-board  and  lifts  the  strain  of  the 
four  strings.  The  bridge  is  movable  ;  but  it  is  so  impor- 
tant and  all-essential  to  the  propagation  of  any  sound  at  all 
that  it  may  be  called  the  wife  of  the  violin.  All  old  violins 
have  had  "many  bridges  in  their  time,  but  there  is  no  reason 
why  the  union,  if  happy,  should  not  last  for  forty  or  fifty 
years.  A  perfectly  harmonious  marriage  is  as  rare  between 
violins  and  their  bridges  as  it  is  between  men  and  women, 
though  in  either  case  there  is  a  considerable  margin  for  the 
gradual  adjustment  of  temperaments.  Although  the  old 
violin  is  very  capricious  in  his  choice,  and  often  remains  a 
widower  for  years,  he  does  not  object   to  elderly  bridges, 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


59 


and,  when  he  finds  one  he  can  get  on  with,  will  obstinately 
resent  any  rash  interference  with  the  harmony  of  his  domes- 
tic arrangements. 

This  is  a  point  not  nearly  enough  considered,  even  by 
wise  violin  doctors  and  repairers.  The  heartless  substi- 
tution of  raw  young  bridges  for  old  and  tried  companions 
is  common  and  much  to  be  deplored,  and  a  sensitive  old 
Strad.  will  never  cease  to  spar  with  the  fresh,  conceited, 
wayward  young  things,  utterly  incapable  of  entering  into 
his  fine  qualities,  and  caring  naught  for  his  two  hundred 
years  of  tonal  experience  ;  and  the  jarring  and  bickering  go 
on  until  he  gets  rid  of  one  after  another  and  settles  down,  if 
not  with  his  old  favorite,  at  least  with  some  elderly  and 
fairly  dessicated  companion.  I  do  not  believe  in  bridges 
being  worn  out.  After  a  year  or  two  the  hard  box-fibre 
yields  very  little  under  the  cutting  of  the  strings ;  there  is  a 
considerable  margin  for  the  shifting  of  the  strings,  and  no 
string  but  the  first  will  materially  grind.  Rather  than 
change  so  precious  a  thing  as  a  congenial  partner,  glue, 
mend,  patch,  repair  her,  just  as  you  would  her  priceless 
old  husband  ;  if  he  is  in  the  prime  of  life  at  about  one 
hundred  and  fifty,  she  may  well  be  a  little  made  up  at  sixty 
or  seventy.  Thirty  years  ago  my  Stradivarius,  171 2,  grand 
pattern,  came  by  gift  into  my  possession.  I  soon  found  it 
did  not  get  on  with  its  bridge,  — a  new,  sappy,  crude,  thick 
thing,  which  seemed  to  choke  and  turn  sour  its  mellow 
vibrations.  About  that  time  I  received  the  present  of  a  very 
old  bridge  from  the  violin  of  F.  Cramer.  It  was  delicate, 
exquisitely  finished,  evidently  very  old.  I  thought  its  build 
too  slight,  but  clapped  it  on  at  once,  and  the  old  violin 
waked  as  out  of  a  long  sleep,  like  a  giant  refreshed  with 
wine.  It  was  then  some  time  before  I  found  exactly  the 
right  place,  and  for  several  years,  on  and  off,  I  fidgeted 
about  with  the  bridge.  One  day,  in  shifting  it,  I  snapped 
it ;  but,  after  trying  other  bridges,  I  glued  the  old  one 
together,  and  once  more  the  violin  found  its  old  sweetness 
and  solace.  Years  passed  ;  I  left  off  playing,  the  Strad.  lay 
neglected,  got  damp,  and  its  joints  loosened.  I  lent  it  to  a 
cunning  doctor;  he  "fixed  it  up"  again,  but  sent  it  back 
with  a  new  bridge,  and  sounding  —  well,  like  files  and 
vinegar  !  I  recovered  the  old  bridge,  that  he  declared  now 
worn  out.     I  restored  it  to  its  beloved  husband,  now  only  in 


6o  MEMORIES   OE  A    MUSICAL  LIFE. 

his  one  hundred  and  seventy-first  year ;  he  received  his  lost 
wife  with  effusion,  and  I  think  the  harmony  made  by  the 
two  was  never  more  perfect  than  it  is  now. 

ABOUT  STRINGS. 

A  word  about  violin  strings.  The  positive  thickness  of 
the  strings  depends  upon  the  temperament  and  build  of 
the  violin,  providing  that  the  playei*'s  fingers  are  equal  to 
thick  or  thin  strings.  Thick  strings  will  mellow  the 
screaminess  of  a  Stainer,  elicit  the  full  tone  of  a  Joseph 
Guarnerius  or  grand  Strad.,  whilst  the  older  violins  of 
Brescia,  and  even  the  sweet  Nicolas  Amati,  will  work 
better  with  thinner  strings  ;  but  in  such  matters  the  player 
must  come  to  the  best  compromise  he  can  with  his  fingers 
and  his  fiddle,  for  the  finger  will  often  desire  a  thin  string 
when  the  fiddle  cries  out  for  a  thick  one.  New  violins,  as  a 
rule,  will  take  thicker  strings  than  the  fineold  sensitives  of  the 
sixteenth  or  seventeenth  centuries.  Of  the  English,  French, 
German,  and  Italian  strings  the  Italian  are  the  best ;  and 
of  the  Italian,  the  Roman  hard  and  brilliant,  a  little  rough, 
and  Neapolitan  smooth,  soft,  and  pale,  are  preferred.  Pa- 
duans  are  strong,  but  frequently-  false.  Veronese  are  softer 
and  deeper  in  color.  The  German  now  rank  next,  and  the 
white,  smooth  Saxon  strings  are  good  substitutes  for,  but 
no  rivals  of,  the  Italians.  The  French  firsts  are  brittle,  the 
Italian  strings  sound  well,  and  the  French  patent  fourth 
silver  string,  perfectly  smooth  and  shining,  is  preferred  by 
some  soloists  to  the  old  covered  fourth.  The  English 
strings,  of  a  dirtv  green  and  yellow  color,  are  very  strong, 
and  good  enough  for  hack  work  in  the  orchestra.  The  best 
and  strongest  strings  are  made  from  the  intestines  of  spring 
lambs  killed  in  September,  and  the  superiority  of  the  Italian 
over  others  is  explained  by  the  climate  ;  for  in  Italy  the  sun 
does  what  has  to  be  done  artificially  in  more  northern 
latitudes. 

The  demand  for  the  interior  of  the  September  lamb  being 
out  of  all  proportion  to  the  supplv,  there  is  a  vast  sale  of 
inferior  strings  always  going  on  at  high  prices.  In  string 
selection  the  objects  are  three  :  — 

i .  To  suit  the  constitution  of  your  instrument,  and 
choose  that  thickness  and  quality    of  string  which  will  de- 


MEMORIES   OE  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  61 


velop   tone  with    the    greatest   ease,   roundness,   and  free- 
dom. 

2.  To  choose  strings  which  will  give  good  fifths,  —  a 
matter  sometimes  a  little  dependent  on  the  shape  of  your 
own  fingers  and  the  cut  of  your  finger-board,  but  also  con- 
trolled by  the  relative  thickness  of  your  strings. 

3.  To  avoid  false  strings,  —  an  epidemic  which  rages  in- 
continently amongst  E  violin  strings.  Spohr's  recipe  for 
detection  was  to  hold  the  string  between  the  fingers  and 
thumbs,  and,  if  when  he  set  it  vibrating  from  one  end  to  the 
other  only  two  lines  appeared,  he  decided  that  it  was  true  ; 
if  a  third,  it  was  deemed  false,  Once  on,  however,  there 
can  never  be  any  doubt. 

It  is  only  necessary  to  glance  at  the  enormous  variety 
of  shapes  that  the  viol  tribe  has  assumed,  both  before  and 
after  the  creation  of  the  violin,  to  judge  of  the  inexhaustible 
dominion  which  the  conception  seems  to  have  exercised 
over  the  human  mind.  The  collector  who  cannot  play, 
and  the  player  who  cannot  collect,  are  alike  victims  of  this 
mania  for  violins.  Of  what  interest  can  they  be  to  the  col- 
lector, who  keeps  dozens  of  them,  unstrung  and  unmended, 
in  cupboards  and  cabinets,  and  shows  them  about  to  his 
bewildered  guests  like  old  pots  or  enamels? 

Look  at  a  fine  specimen  or  two,  on  and  oft',  when  you 
have  the  chance,  and  the  mystery  may  possibly  dawn  upon 
you  too. 

There,  in  a  small  compass,  lies  before  you  such  a  wonder 
of  simplicity,  subtlety,  variety,  and  strength  as  perhaps  no 
other  object  of  equal  dimensions  can  possess.  The  eye  is 
arrested  by  the  amber  gloss  and  glow  of  the  varnish  ;  the 
infinite  grace  of  the  multitudinous  curves  ;  the  surface, 
which  is  nowhere  flat,  but  ever  in  flowing  lines,  sunlit 
hollows  of  miniature  hills  and  vales,  irregular,  like  the  fine 
surface  of  a  perfectly  healthy  human  body;  its  gentle 
mounds  and  depressions  would  almost  make  us  believe  that 
there  is  a  whole  underlying  system  of  muscle,  a  very  living 
organism,  to  account  for  such  subtle  yet  harmonious  irregu- 
laritv  of  surface.  It  is  positively  alive  with  swelling  and 
undulating  grace. 

Then  the  eye  follows  with  unabating  ardor  the  outline  — 
dipping  in  here  or  bulging  there — in  segments  of  what 
look  like  an  oval  or  a  circle,  but  which  are  never  any  part 


62  MEMORIES    OE  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

of  an  oval  or  a  circle,  but  something  drawn  unmechanically, 
like  a  Greek  frieze,  after  the  vision  of  an  inward  grace. 

Its  voice  may  be  as  fair  as  its  form  and  finish  ;  yet,  un- 
strung and  silent,  more  truly  can  it  he  said  of  a  violin  than 
of  any  human  creature,  that  "  it  is  a  thing  of  beauty  and  a 
joy  forever,"  for  its  beauty  grows  with  the  mellowness  of 
age ;  its  voice  is  sweeter  as  the  centuries  roll  on,  and  its 
physical  frame  appears  to  be  almost  indestructible. 

And  the  player,  —  who  is  not  always  a  judge  of  a  genuine 
violin,  but  goes  by  the  sound  qualities  which  suit  him,  —  he 
naturally  adores  what  is,  within  its  limits,  scientifically  the 
most  perfect  of  all  instruments. 

The  four  strings,  of  course,  limit  and  define  its  harmonic 
resources ;  in  combination  and  viewed  collectively  in  the 
quartet  alone  is  it  able  to  compass  the  extended  develop- 
ments of  harmony  in  bass,  tenor,  and  treble  clef,  but  as  a 
tone-producing  instrument  it  has  no  rival.  It  possesses 
accent  combined  with  sustained  and  modified  tone.  The 
piano  has  accent,  but  little  sustained,  and  no  modified,  tone  ; 
the  organ  has  accent,  and  sustained,  but  in  a  very  imperfect 
sense  modified,  tone  ;  the  violin  possesses  in  perfection  all 
three.  With  the  stroke  of  the  bow  comes  every  degree  of 
accent ;  with  the  drawing  and  skilful  sostenuto  of  up  and 
down  bowings  the  notes  are  indefinitely  sustained  to  a 
degree  far  exceeding  the  capacity  of  the  human  lungs ; 
whilst  eveiv  pulse  of  emotion  is,  through  the  pressure  of 
the  finger,  communicated  to  the  vibrating  string,  and  the 
tone  trembles,  shivers,  thrills,  or  assumes  a  hard,  rigid 
quality,  passing  at  will  from  the  variety  of  a  whisper  to  a 
very  roar  or  scream  of  agony  or  delight. 

Can  the  soul  of  the  musician  fail  to  yield  loving  or  utter 
allegiance  to  the  sovereign  power  of  the  violin,  which  is  so 
willing  and  ideal  a  minister  of  his  subtlest  inspirations, 
equal  to  the  human  voice  in  sensibility  and  expression,  and 
far  superior  to  it  in  compass,  execution,  variety,  and  dura- 
bility? 

The  violin  is  not  an  invention,  it  is  a  growth.  It  is  the 
survival  of  the  fittest.  The  undeveloped  elements  of  the 
genus  Viol,  out  of  which  grew  the  species  Violin,  are  to  be 
found  latent  in  the  rebek,  the  crowth,  and  the  rotta.  In  the 
struggle  for  existence  each  succumbed,  leaving  only  its  use- 
ful and  vital  elements  to  be  recombined. 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE.  6^ 

The  rebek  bequeathed  its  rounded  form  pierced  in  the 
belly  with  two  sound-holes,  the  bridge,  tail-piece,  screw- 
box,  doubtless  a  sound-post,  and  that  odd  crook  of  a  violin- 
bow  often  seen  in  the  hands  of  stone  angels  in  cathedrals  of 
the  fourteenth  century. 

The  crowth  gives  the  all-important  hint  of  the  two  vibrat- 
ing boards  joined  by  ribs ;  whilst  from  the  rotta,  or  guitar 
tribe,  comes  the  lower  end,  and  the  upper  end  comes  from 
the  rebek  ;  the  elongated  neck  separate  from  the  body,  the 
frets,  which  for  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  delayed  the 
advent  of  the  violin,  and  the  two  concave  side-curves  so 
needful  for  the  manipulation  of  the  bow.  "  Music  and 
Morals,"  contains  diagrams  illustrating  the  genesis  of  the 
violin. 

This  viol  —  of  no  particular  size  or  settled  shape,  or 
rather  of  all  shapes  and  sizes,  usually  with  a  flat  back  and 
round  belly  —  was  made  in  great  profusion  in  the  thirteenth 
and  fourteenth  centuries.  Any  one  who  will  glance  at  the 
case  of  ancient  viols  in  the  South  Kensington  Museum  will 
be  surprised  at  the  fancy  and  fertility  of  form  displayed. 

There  was  the  Knee  Viol,  the  Bass  Viol,  the  Viol  di 
Gamba,  the  Violone,  and  the  Viol  d'Amore.  Some  of  these 
were  inlaid  with  tortoise-shell  and  ivory,  others  elaborately 
carved  and  over-purfled, —  facts  most  interesting  to  the  con- 
noisseur, and  marking  a  period  when  cabinet-work  was  at 
its  zenith  and  jnusical  sound  in  its  infancy.  Sound  was  the 
carver's  humble  servant.  The  well-known  violin  given  by 
Queen  Elizabeth  to  the  Earl  of  Leicester,  riddled  through 
and  through  like  Ceylonese  furniture  or  a  Chinese  ivory 
junk,  is  quite  absurd  as  a  sound  vehicle.  By  and  by  the 
carver  and  fine  cabinet-worker  would  have  to  place  all  the 
treasures  of  their  art  at  the  disposal  of  music,  and  would  not 
be  allowed  one  join,  or  purfle,  or  pattern  inimical  to  tone. 
I  shall  develop  these  hints  later. 

The  variety  and  number  of  strings  in  these  old  viols  are 
often  childish.  It  looks  like  (what  it  was)  playing  with 
newly  discovered  resources,  the  real  wealth  of  which  it 
took  two  hundred  years  more  to  learn.  If  in  bowed  instru- 
ments you  have  more  strings  than  fingers  the  hand  with 
difficulty  overlays  them  ;  of  course  in  the  guitar  tribe  the 
work  is  divided  between  ten  fingers  instead  of  four.  Tn  the 
Viol  d'Amore  an    odd  attempt   was  made  to  improve  the 


64  MEMORIES   OE  A   MUSICAL  LIEE. 

timbre  by  a  set  of  steel  wires  tuned  sympathetically,  and 
running  beneath  the  gut-strings.  It  took  two  hundred  years 
to  convince  people  that  the  timbre  lay  with  the  wood,  not 
the  wires ;  nor  could  the  old  masters  see  that  tone  would 
only  arrive  with  an  extended  study  in  the  properties  of  wood 
and  a  radical  change  of  model. 

I  showed  some  years  ago,  in  the  Contemporary  Review, 
what  it  is  difficult  to  trace  step  by  step,  but  what  we  know 
must  have  been  the  history  of  the  violin  tribe  in  its  earlier 
stages.  I  placed  the  lesson  for  the  eye,  —  showing  how  the 
smaller  viols  or  violettes  of  the  seventeenth  century  fell  into 
the  violins,  the  larger  ones  into  the  Tenor,  and  the  Viol  di 
Gambas  into  the  Violoncello.  The  double-bass,  a  genuine 
viol,  and  the  only  one  which  retains  its  flat  back,  was  made 
extensively  by  Gaspar  di  Salo,  and  has  been  entirely 
adopted  by  the  modern  orchestra  ;  indeed,  whilst  innumera- 
ble other  large  viols  are  merely  preserved  as  curiosities,  the 
double-bass  retains  its  ancient  tvpe,  and  in  the  Beethoven 
and  Wagnerian  orchestra  exercises  an  influence  and  promi- 
nence second  only  to  the  violin  itself. 

As  we  look  intently  at  the  confused  nebulas  of  sixteenth- 
century  viols,  we  notice  the  modest  constellation  of  the 
violins  slowly  detaching  itself  from  that  host  of  tubby  stars 
which  it  was  soon  destined  to  supersede  forever.  The 
rise  of  the  violin  tribe  —  by  which  of  course  I  mean  the 
violin,  tenor,  violoncello,  and  double-bass —  is,  in  fact, 
coincident  with  the  rise  of  modern  music.  A  definite  art 
required  a  definite  instrument  —  more  mechanical,  more 
constant,  more  reliable,  than  the  human  voice. 

Between  Carissimi,  1570,  and  Monteverde,  1672,  the 
foundations  of  the  art  of  modern  music  were  laid  by  the 
discovery  of  the  perfect  cadence  and  the  modern  octave. 
With  a  system  of  fixed  tonality  the  art  began  those  strides 
of  progress  which  in  about  two  hundred  years  seemed  to 
leave  nothing  new  to  be  discovered.  It  first  recast  and 
used  the  human  voice.  The  voice  was  noticed  to  fall 
naturally  into  treble,  alto,  tenor,  and  bass,  and  was  so  or- 
ganized in  the  singing-schools  of  Pistocchi,  at  Bologna,  in 
1659. 

Now  the  chief  of  the  Amati  worked  from  1596-16S4,  and 
the  division  of  violin,  viola,  violoncello,  and  double-bass 
corresponded  with  tolerable  closeness  to   the  four  divisions 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  65 

of  the  human  voice,  the  rise  of  singing-schools,  and  the 
exigencies  of  the  new  musical  art.  The  Procrustean  bed 
upon  which  the  poor  viols  of  the  period  were  now  stretched 
forms  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  instructive  episodes 
in  the  history  of  the  art.  Viol  di  Gambas  were  converted 
into  violoncellos,  the  viollettes  enlarged  and  patched  into 
violins,  viols  cut  down  —  sadly,  brutally  cut  down  —  into 
tenors.  No  lover  of  the  art  could  help  dropping  a  tear  over 
a  matchless  specimen  of  Linarelli  in  1 400-1 500,  exhibited 
at  South  Kensington,  which  had  been  so  cut  down  ;  and  I 
could  point  to  one  or  two  viols  now  passing  as  Amati 
tenors  which  have  received  similar  treatment  and  strut  in 
borrowed  plumes.  The  cabinet-work  is  often  so  fine  that 
only  an  experienced  eye,  with  the  aid  of  a  microscope,  can 
discern  the  joints  and  refittings  beneath  the  new  wash  of 
dirty  brown  varnish  habitually  used  to  conceal  the  deed. 
But  all  this  only  proves  the  imperative  fitness  of  a  new 
combination.  We  have  at  last  arrived  at  the  modern  violin, 
and  the  reason  of  its  natural  supremacy.  Its  right  to 
survive  is  clearly  to  be  found  in  its  perfect  ministry  to 
the  art  of  modern  music.  I  have  dwelt  upon  its  compass, 
which  is  to  all  intents  and  purposes  unlimited,  and  its  other 
especial  merits  are  not  far  to  seek. 

The  number  and  the  tension  of  the  strings  is  the  happy 
mean  between  the  one  or  two  strings  of  the  Japanese  or 
Persian  fiddle  and  the  many-stringed  viol.  Add  a  fifth 
string  to  the  violin,  and  the  tension  is  not  only  too  great,  but 
unnecessary,  for  the  E  string  will  yield  sound  as  shrill  as 
the  human  ear  can  bear ;  add  a  string  on  the  other 
side,  and  the  tension  will  be  too  feeble  to  yield  a  good 
quality  of  sound.  And  similar  remarks  may  apply  to  the 
tenor,  violoncello,  and  double-bass  ;  each  is  sufficient  and 
complete,  and  where  it  ends  its  companion  steps  in  to  con- 
tinue the  varied  function. 

Each  is  distinct  and  full  of  character ;  the  charm  of 
variety  is  constitutionally  involved.  In  each  the  strings  are 
of  different  thicknesses,  with  different  tensions,  acting  upon 
different  vibrating  surfaces,  enclosing  different-sized  columns 
of  air. 

We  pause  for  a  moment  with  feelings  of  profound  satis- 
faction and  survey  the  violin  kingdom  of  the  past.  This 
fourfold  valuable  selection  —  this  crowning  of  violin,  tenor, 


66  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

violoncello,  and  double-bass  —  has  not  been  the  work  of  any 
one  man,  or  age,  or  even  country  ;  it  is  the  inexorable, 
empirical,  yet  logical  outcome  or  evolution  of  thousands  of 
experiments  made  in  France,  Germany,  and  Italy,  by 
hundreds  of  workers,  extending  over  centuries  of  time,  and 
resulting  in  the  survival  of  the  fittest. 

#        THE    ITALIAN    SCHOOLS. 

Although  Duiflbprugcar  was  certainly  not  an  Italian, 
yet,  coming  from  the  Tyrol,  he  settled  at  Bologna,  after- 
wards migrating  to  Lyons,  in  France,  where  he  spent  most 
of  his  life  and  died.  He  was  undoubtedly  one  of  the 
fathers,  if  not  the  father,  of  the  violin.  It  has  been  ques- 
tioned whether  Duiflbprugcar  ever  made  violins,  but  there 
is  no  reason  for  doubting  that  Palestrina  played  on  a 
Duiflbprugcar  violin,  which  is  said  to  have  borne  this 
couplet :  — 

"  Viva  fui  in  sylvis,  sum  dura  occisasecuri 
Dum  vixi  tacui  mortua  dulce  cano." 

There  is,  besides,  a  large-sized  violin  bearing  date  1539, 
said  to  be  the  only  extant  specimen  ;  but,  lately,  Mr.  Hill 
obtained  from  Lyons  a  very  excellent  and  perfect  specimen, 
which  he  believed  to  be  an  undoubted  Duiflbprugcar,  and 
which  I  exhibited  at  the  Royal  Institution.  It  is  quaint, 
undecided,  and  antique  in  outline,  the  S's  curiously  cut,  and 
the  back  over-purfled.  When  opened  it  was  found  backed 
with  old  canvas  and  oddly  primitive  in  construction.  It 
ought  to  be  put  under  a  glass  case  in  the  South  Kensington 
Museum.  Indeed  it  is  incredible,  but  true,  that  not  a  single 
museum  in  Europe  that  I  know  of  has  thought  it  worth 
while  to  procure  specimens  of  the  violin  art  from  Duiflb- 
prugcar to  Bergonzi. 

But  it  is  not  to  Bologna  or  Lyons,  but  to  Brescia,  that 
we  must  look  for  the  rise  of  the  first  great  violin  school. 

GASPAR    DI    SALO. 

Note  first  Gaspar  di  Salo,  who  worked  between  iS5°  and 
161 2.  It  has  been  my  privilege  to  live  for  some  weeks  with 
Mr.  Amherst's  fine  old  Gaspar  di  Salo.     He  was  in  splen- 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


67 


did  condition,  still  bulgy,  but  a  notable  and  significant 
reduction  from  the  old  viol  type,  which  Gaspar  doubtless 
continued  to  make.  The  head  is  charmingly  long,  and 
queer,  and  antique.  The  idea  of  putting  character  and 
great  finish  into  the  scroll  belongs  to  a  later  period. 
Human  and  animal  heads  were  no  doubt  common  enough 
in  the  place  of  a  scroll ;  but  they  belong  to  the  carving, 
cabinet-decoration,  over-purfling  period,  when  tone  was 
second  to  ornament. 

As  the  great  tone  period  approached,  carving  for  the  sake 
of  carving  was  abandoned ;  ornament  was  kept  simple, 
subordinate,  but  full  of  finish,  and  avowedly  the  mark  of 
sign-manual.  The  exquisite,  yet  unpretending  and  simple, 
scrolls  of  Amati  and  Stradivarius  arose  along  with  the  rise 
of  violin  tone.  But  why  such  finish,  such  evident  intention 
to  be  noticed,  such  distinct  cachet  and  appeal  to  the  eye? 
I  think  this  is  the  natural  explanation.  As  the  art  of  violin- 
playing  improved,  violinists  took  to  holding  their  fiddles 
well  up,  and  to  playing  without  notes  ;  the  head  of  the  violin 
was  thus  the  first  thing  which  caught  the  eye ;  whereas 
before  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  old  viol- 
players  held  their  instruments  down,  like  bad  orchestral 
players  now,  with  violin  scroll  or  head  almost  between  their 
knees  and  7i)iseen.  That  head  might,  indeed,  be  a  finely 
carved  human  head  ;  but,  if  so,  it  could  only  be  seen  as  an 
ornament  when  the  violin  was  hanging  up  ;  it  could  only  be 
seen,  if  at  all,  upside  down  when  the  violin  was  being 
played.  Look  at  all  old  violins  ;  they  are  rubbed  by  the 
beard  on  both  sides.  Now  we  never  place  the  chin  on  the 
oft-side  —  always  on  the  inside  ;  but  if  a  man  has  to  crouch 
in  dim  churches  over  flickering  oil-lamps,  and  scrape  old 
chants,  he  will  get  slovenly  ;  his  violin-head  will  droop 
between  his  knees,  and  his  chin  will  most  naturally  slip 
over  the  tail-piece  and  lie  on  the  oft-side,  whilst  his  ear 
reposes  on  the  tail-piece,  and  the  top  of  his  violin  has  a 
tendency  to  disappear  over  his  left  shoulder ! 

Compare  this  old,  slovenly  method,  inimical  to  tone,  to 
style,  to  execution,  and  to  grace,  —  which  buried  the  scroll,— - 
with  the  noble,  upright  pose  of  Joachim  or  Neruda  when 
playing,  where  the  scroll  is  constantly  thrown  up,  as  if  itself 
addressing  the  audience,  and  instead  of  looking  upside-down 
or  ungraceful,  as  would  a  human  or  animal  head  in   that 


68  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 

position,  comes  out  towards  you  like  the  prow  of  an 
ancient  galley,  and  impresses  upon  the  eye,  with  every 
motion  of  the  player's  wrist,  its  fine  verve  and  individual 
character. 

Gaspar  di  Salo  may  almost  be  said  to  have  invented  violin 
tone.  Mr.  Tyssen  Amherst's  unique  early  Gaspar  violin, 
with  its  long,  pointed  y-like  black-letter  sound-holes,  al- 
though of  the  high  model  abandoned  in  later  life,  is  surpris- 
ing in  tone,  considering  its  build,  which  is  generally  sup- 
posed to  favor  a  smothered  and  tubby  sound.  Although  the 
first  and  fourth  strings  are  rather  rough,  the  whole  is  very 
sonorous  and  fresh,  and  the  D  and  A  strings  very  rich  and 
pure.  We  must  not  look  for  the  finish  of  the  Amatis  at  this 
early  period.  The  build  of  this  early  Gaspar  is  round  and 
full,  both  in  back  and  belly,  and  the  chisel  has  gone  wrong 
more  than  once  in  the  back  grooving,  whilst  the  purfling  is 
not  good.  Probably  one  and  the  same  cunning  workman  has 
repaired  the  purfling  in  places,  patched  the  head,  and  posi- 
tively mosaiced  the  worn-out  screw-box,  and,  alas !  carried 
a  brown  varnish  over  several  parts  of  the  instrument, 
through  which  the  rich  golden  tints  of  Gaspar  still  peep, 
and  almost  dazzle  the  eye.  Still,  whoever  has  put  on  the 
new  neck  has  worshipped  at  the  shrine  of  old  Gaspar ;  he 
has  made  his  purfling  a  little  too  good,  left  a  little  too  much 
of  his  glue  and  his  brown  varnish  ;  but  his  patched  head  is 
such  a  masterpiece,  such  care  and  labor  to  keep  every  line 
of  Gaspar,  —  except  on  one  side  of  the  screw-box,  where 
about  two  inches  of  line  is  new,  but  the  join  so  good  as 
only  to  be  seen  under  a  microscope. 

All  this,  when  one  lives  with  a  fiddle,  one  gets  io  notice 
and  to  love,  whilst  the  uninitiated,  standing  by  in  bewilder- 
ment, may  well  feel  tempted  to  order  the  violin  and  the  con- 
noisseur oft' to  the  nearest  lunatic  asylum. 

MAGGINI. 

Maggini  (Giovanni  Paolo),  1590-1640,  of  Brescia,  fol- 
lowed Gaspar,  but  carried  farther  the  art  of  rich,  clear  tone. 
It  is  the  glory  of  the  Brescians  to  have  hit  upon  this  secret, 
lost  as  soon  as  found,  that  for  tone  —  good,  round  tone  —  the 
belly  and  back  must  be  brought  down  flatter  upon  ribs  of 
diminished    height.     Maggini's  violins,  though  lacking   in 


MEMORIES  OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  69 

some  of  the  quaint  grace  of  Gaspar  (especially  his  double- 
basses),  approach  the  perfected  Cremona  model  of  the  later 
rather  than  the  earlier  days ;  his  scroll  is  grooved  and  fin- 
ished ;  his  sound-holes  are  still  the  long  black-letter  SS  ; 
the  varnish  rich  brown  or  yellow.  He  is  often  confounded 
with  Barak  Norman,  or,  still  worse,  with  any  obscure  Ger- 
man imitator  who  has  chosen  to  a  little  over-purfle  and  inlay 
his  back.  The  Brescians,  Mariani,  Venturini,  Budiani, 
Mateo  Bente,  cannot  further  be  alluded  to  here ;  in  time 
they  will  all  be  treasured  more  as  antiquities  than  as  tone- 
masters. 

The  hotter  suns  and  splendid  river  supplying  the  fine 
wood-market,  and  the  commercial  prosperity  enjoyed  by 
Cremona,  seem  now  to  have  attracted  and  fixed  the  manu- 
facture of  the  violin  ;  and  there  was  now  a  growing  demand, 
not  only  from  all  the  churches,  but  also  throughout  the  pal- 
aces of  Italy.  We  must  ever  view  that  central  square  of 
Cremona,  where  stood  the  Church  of  St.  Dominic,  with 
feelings  of  the  deepest  interest.  Standing  opposite  the 
facade  on  our  right  hand  lies  the  house  of  the  Amati ;  there 
worked  Andrew,  the  founder  of  the  school,  making,  in  1550, 
close  copies  of  the  Brescians,  Gaspar  and  Maggini. 

There  were  the  boys,  Anthony  and  Jerome,  who  after- 
wards made  jointly  those  violins  so  much  sought  after  ;  but 
oddly  enough  reverted  to  the  tubbier  model,  and  over- 
grooved  the  sides  of  their  bellies  and  backs,  thinning  their 
tone,  until  the  genius  of  Jerome  discerned  the  error  and 
reverted  to  the  Brescian  type. 

Here  was  born  the  great  Nicolas  Amati,  1 596-1 684,  who 
struck  out  his  own  model,  flattened,  and  in  his  best  time 
scarcely  retaining  a  trace  of  the  vicious  side-groove  of  the 
earlier  Amatis. 

On  the  same  work-bench,  as  students  in  the  school  of  the 
immortal  Nicolas,  sat  Andrew  Guarnerius  and  the  incom- 
parable Stradivarius,  finishing  their  master's  violins  and 
copying  for  years  his  various  models  with  supreme  skill  and 
docility. 

STRADIVARIUS. 

Almost  next  door,  probably  on  the  death  of  Nicolas 
Amati,  Stradivarius  set  up  his  shop,  opposite  the  west 
front  of  the  big  church  ;  there  for  fifty  years  more  he  worked 


MEMORIES    OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


with  uninterrupted  assiduity  ;  and  next  door  to  him  the 
family  of  the  Guarnerii  had  their  work-rooms,  and  in  that 
little  square  were  all  the  finest  violins  made  in  the  short 
space  of  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  years.  The  bodv  of 
Stradivarius  lies  in  the  Church  of  the  Rosary,  not  a  stone's- 
throw  from  his  own  house  :  and  so  these  great  men  died. 
and  were  buried,  working  in  friendly  rivalry,  and  leaving 
their  echoes  to  roll  from  pole  to  pole. 

I  have  a  delicate  Andrew  Guarnerius  of  1665.  which 
shows  admirably  the  transition  between  the  full  form  of  the 
earlier  Amatis  and  the  superior  flat  model  of  Nicolas 
Amati. 

It  was  made,  doubtless,  under  the  eye  of  Nicolas,  and 
perhaps  criticised  by  Stradivarius,  who  probably  worked  at 
the  same  bench  and  shared  Andrew's  glue-pot. 

In  my  Andrew  Guarnerius  the  drooping  Brescian  cor- 
ners have  vanished,  and  the  lower  angles  are  turned  up 
sharp  ;  but  the  middle  lengths  fail  to  attain  the  pleasantly 
balanced  curves  and  the  graceful  upper  width  and  freedom 
of  Mr.  Amherst's  later  Nicolas  Amati,  of  1676,  a  true  gem, 
despite  the  apparent  plainness  of  the  back. 

Andrew  Guarnerius  has  also  quite  got  rid  of  the  rough. 
coarse,  thick  Brescian  S,  which  was  always  ugly  and  too 
wide,  and  in  its  place  the  eye  is  rejoiced  to  find  a  lovely 
and  delicately  rounded  S,  unlike  at  top  and  bottom,  but 
only  a  shade  less  graceful  than  the  freehand  writing  of 
Nicolas  himself. 

The  great  Nicolas  (1596-16S4)  began  to  change  his 
model,  reverting  to  the  later  Brescian  in  all  but  his  sound- 
holes  and  two  curves,  about  1625.  His  violins  increased  in 
size,  and  would  have  increased  in  power  had  it  not  been 
for  a  remnant  of  the  early  Amati  side-grooving,  which  is 
said  to  thin  the  tone.  The  dip  from  the  foot  of  the  bridge 
is  thought  to  be  too  great,  but  the  upper  part  of  the  grand 
pattern  is  truly  noble.  Some  of  his  scrolls  have  been  criti- 
cised as  too  small  and  contracted  ;  but  there  is  nothing  of 
this  in  a  1676  specimen  before  me.  and,  although  the  corners 
are  pointed  and  highly  elegant,  there  is  nothing  weak  ;  yet 
the  whole  is  full  of  feminine  grace. 

The  varnish,  when  not,  as  is  usual,  rubbed  off.  inclines  to 
light  orange  with  clear  golden  tints.  The  tone  is  so  sweet 
and  sensitive  that  it  seems  to  leap  forth  before  the  bow  has 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  p 

touched  the  strings,  and  goes  on  like  a  bell  long  after  the 
bow  has  left  them.  To  a  fine  Joseph  Guarnerius  you  have 
sometimes  to  lay  siege,  and  then  you  are  rewarded  ;  but  the 
Nicolas  Amati  is  won  almost  before  it  is  wooed. 

The  incomparable  Antonius  Stradivarius,  or  Stradivari, 
lived  between  1644-1737.  His  latest  known  violin  bears 
date  1736,  and  mentions  his  age,  ninety-two.  He  worked 
without  haste  and  without  rest.  His  life  was  interrupted 
only  by  the  siege  of  Cremona  in  1702.  But  his  art  knew 
no  politics,  and  the  foreign  courts  of  Spain  and  France  were 
quite  as  eager  to  get  his  violins  as  the  Governor  of  Cre- 
mona, or  the  Duke  of  Modena. 

Up  to  about  1668  he  was  simply  the  apprentice  of 
Nicolas ;  we  find  scrolls  and  sound-holes  cut  by  the  pupil 
on  the  master's  violins.  He  even  made  and  labelled  for 
Nicolas. 

In  1668  he  leaves  his  master's  shop  and  sets  up  for  him- 
self. But  for  thirty  years  this  consummate  student,  whilst 
making  every  conceivable  experiment  with  lutes,  guitars, 
and  violins,  practically  copied  closely  the  best  models  of 
Nicolas  Amati. 

Still  we  notice  that  from  1686-1694  his  sound-holes  be- 
gin to  recline,  his  form  grows  flatter,  his  curves  extended, 
his  corners  tossed  up  and  pointed,  the  scroll  bolder,  varnish 
inclining  away  from  the  browns  and  light  orange  to  the  rich 
yellows  and  light  reds.  Notice  the  way  in  which  his  pur- 
fling  at  the  corners,  like  a  little  curved  wasp's  sting,  follows 
no  outline  of  the  violin,  and  is  not  in  the  middle  of  the 
angle,  but  points  freely  towards  the  corner  of  the  angle. 
What  chic  I  as  the  French  say. 

In  1687  the  master  makes  his  long  pattern, — not  really 
longer,  but  looking  longer  because  of  the  contracted  sides. 
The  Spanish  Quatuor,  inlaid  with  ivory,  illustrates  the 
fancy  and  skill  of  the  workman,  as  did  also  an  exquisitely 
carved  lute  by  Stradivarius,  exhibited  at  the  South  Ken- 
sington Museum. 

It  was  not  until  Stradivarius  had  entered  upon  his  fifty- 
sixth  year  that  he  attained  his  zenith,  and  fixed  his  model 
known  as  the  grand  pattern. 

Between  1700  and  1725  those  extraordinary  creations 
passed  from  his  chisel,  even  as  the  masterpieces  on  canvas 
passed  from  the  brush  of  Raphael. 


72 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


The  finest  of  these  specimens  — like  that  possessed  by  Mr. 
Adams,  the  Dolphin,  and  by  Mr.  Hart,  the  Betts  Strad. — 
fetch  from  £300  to  £1,000. 

To  try  and  describe  these  instruments  is  like  trying  to 
describe  the  pastes,  glazes,  and  blues  of  Nankin,  China. 
Beneath  the  tangible  points  of  outline,  scroll,  character,  and 
variety  of  thickness  and  modification  of  form,  dependent  on 
qualities  of  wood  known  to  the  master,  there  lie  still  the 
intangible  things  which  will  hardly  bear  describing,  even 
when  the  violin  is  under  the  eye  —  one  might  almost  say 
under  the  microscope.  A  rough  attempt  b}7  contrast  may 
be  made  in  detail.  Take  but  one  detail  for  the  benefit  of 
the  general  reader,  the  inner  side  curves  and  angles  of  the 
middle  boughts. 

In  Gaspar  and  Maggini  those  curves  are  drooping  at  the 
corners,  longish  and  undecided  in  character ;  in  Duifloprug- 
car  it  amounts  almost  to  a  wriggle.  Nicolas  Amati  balances 
the  top  and  bottom  of  his  hollow  curve  with  a  certain  mas- 
tery ;  but  it  still  has  a  long,  oval  sweep,  with  a  definite 
relation  of  balance  between  the  top  and  the  bottom  angle. 
Having  mastered  this  sweep  Stradivarius  begins  to  play 
with  his  curves  and  angles.  He  feels  strong  enough  to 
trifle,  like  a  skilled  acrobat,  with  the  balance.  He  lessens 
the  oval,  and  tosses  up  his  lower  corner  with  a  curious 
little  crook  at  the  bottom  ;  the  top  angle  towers  proudly  and 
smoothly  above  it,  yet  it  is  always  graceful,  —  delicious  from 
its  sense  of  freedom,  almost  insolent  in  its  strength  and  self- 
confidence.  There  is  a  touch  about  Stradivarius  here  as 
elsewhere ;  it  is  that  which  separates  the  great  masters 
everywhere  from  their  pupils,  —  Raphael  from  G^ulio  Ro- 
mano, Paganini  from  Sivori,  Stradivarius  from  Carlo  Ber- 
gonzi.  The  freedom  of  Stradivarius  becomes  license  in 
Carlo  Bergonzi  and  over-boldness  in  Joseph  Guarnerius  ; 
for,  although  the  connection  between  Joseph  and  Stradiva- 
rius has  been  questioned,  to  my  mind  it  is  sufficiently  clear. 
Although  Stradivarius  made  down  to  the  last  year  of  his 
life,  still  after  1730,  feeling  his  hand  and  sight  beginning  to 
fail,  he  seldom  signed  his  work.  We  can  catch  one,  and 
only  one,  glimpse  of  him  as  he  lived  and  moved  and  had 
his  being  at  Cremona  in  1730,  Piazza  Domenico.  Old 
Polledro,  late  chapel-master  at  Turin,  describes  "  Antonius, 
the  lute-maker,"  as  an  intimate  friend  of  his  master.     He 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


73 


was  high  and  thin,  and  looked  like  one  worn  with  much 
thought  and  incessant  industry.  In  summer  he  wore  a 
white  cotton  nightcap,  and  in  winter  one  of  some  woollen 
material.  He  was  never  seen  without  his  apron  of  white 
leather,  and  every  day  was  to  him  exactly  like  every  other 
day.  His  mind  was  always  riveted  upon  his  one  pursuit, 
and  he  seemed  neither  to  know  nor  to  desire  the  least 
change  of  occupation.  His  violins  sold  for  four  golden 
iivres  apiece,  and  were  considered  the  best  in  Italy  ;  and,  as 
he  never  spent  anything  except  upon  the  necessaries  of  life 
and  his  own  trade,  he  saved  a  good  deal  of  money,  and  the 
simple-minded  Cremonese  used  to  make  jokes  about  his 
thriftiness,  and  the  proverb  passed,  "As  rich  as  Stradi- 
varius." 

A  traveller  who  lately  visited  his  house,  still  standing  in 
the  square  of  Cremona,  remarked  that  it  was  heated  through 
with  the  sun  like  an  oven.  He  said  you  might  sit  and  sweat 
there  as  in  a  Turkish  bath.  That  was  how  the  Cremona 
makers  dried  their  wood,  and  so  it  was  their  oils  distilled 
slowly  and  remained  always  at  a  high  temperature,  their 
varnish  weltered  and  soaked  into  the  pine  bellies  and  syca- 
more backs  beneath  the  tropical  heat  of  those  seventeenth- 
century  summers ! 

GUARNERIUS. 

Joseph  Anthony  Guarnerius   del  GesUjTTo  (16S7-1745) 

towers  a  head  and  shoulders  above  the  other  illustrious  Guar- 
nerii,  viz.,  Andrew  and  Joseph,  his  sons,  Peter,  brother  of 
Joseph  (son),  Peter  of  Mantua,  son  of  "Joseph  Filius 
Andreae."  The  loud  and  rich  tone  of  the  later  Joseph  del 
Gesu  violins  makes  him  the  formidable  rival  of  Stradivarius. 
Paganini  preferred  his  Joseph,  now  in  the  Municipal  Palace 
of  Genoa,  to  all  others. 

Who  was  Joseph's  master?  The  idea  that  Joseph,  or 
any  one  who  lived  either  in  Amati's  or  Guarnerius's  house, 
—  Amati  on  the  right,  Guarnerius  on  the  left  of  Stradivarius, 
in  the  same  square  at  Cremona,  —  was  entirely  unaffected 
by  the  great  man's  influence,  has  always  seemed  to  me 
absurd.  That  influence  has  been  denied  as  vehemently  in 
late  years  as  it  used  to  be  formerly  taken  for  granted.  Still, 
the  great  Joseph  is  claimed   as  the   pupil  of  Joseph,  son  of 


74  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

Andrew,  —  that  Andrew  who  sat  by  the  side  of  Stradivarius 
in  Nicolas  Amati's  workshop.  With  this  I  find  no  fault ; 
but,  if  the  influence  of  Stradivarius  cannot  be  seen  in  the 
earlier  Josephs,  the  later  Josephs  show  undoubted  signs  of 
the  master,  who  between  1700  and  1730  had  eclipsed  all  his 
predecessors.  In  some  details  Joseph's  undoubted  reversion 
to  Brescian  influence,  and  that  early,  is  interesting,  —  the 
flat  model,  the  long  sound-holes,  and,  it  must  be  added, 
often  the  rough  work.  Still,  in  Joseph's  middle  period  there 
occurs  that  very  high  finish  which  reminds  one  of  Stradi- 
varius. The  elegance  of  the  Strad.  scroll  is  never  attained, 
perhaps  not  even  aimed  at.  The  Josephs  of  about  174°  are 
most  in  request.  They  are  large  and  massively  made,  the 
wood  of  finest  acoustic  property,  the  Brescian  sound-hole 
toned  down  and  rounded  more  like  Stradivarius.  A  fine 
genuine  violin  of  this  period  will  not  go  for  less  than  two 
hundred  guineas,  and  four  hundred  would  not  be  an  out-and- 
out  price.  The  Guarnerius  head  or  scroll  is  often  quaint  and 
full  of  self-assertion.  The  violin  has  the  strongest  make, 
temper,  and  stamp  ;  the  fourth  string  is  often  as  rich  as  a 
trumpet.  His  last  period  is  troubled  by  certain  inferior 
violins,  called  prison  fiddles.  The  tale  runs  that  Joseph  was 
imprisoned  for  some  political  offence,  and  was  supplied  with 
refuse  wood,  by  the  jailer's  daughter.  The  prison  fiddle  is  a 
boon  to  forgers  ;  their  bad  fiddles  pass  freely  for  interesting 
"  prison  Josephs." 

BERGONZI    AND    GUADAGNINI. 

With  Carlo  Bergonzi  (171S— 1755)  and  Guadagnini  (1710- 
1750)  the  great  Cremona  school  comes  to  an  end.  The 
very  varnish  disappears,  the  cunning  in  wood-selection 
seems  to  fail  the  pale  reflectors  of  a  dying  art,  and  the 
passion  for  vigor  and  finish  has  also  departed. 

The  violin,  although  it  culminated,  is  not  exhausted  at 
Cremona,  but  it  would  lead  me  into  a  new  branch  of  my 
subject  to  deal  with  the  other  schools.  These,  after  all,  are 
but  reflections,  more  or  less  pale  or  perfect,  of  the  incom- 
parable Cremonese  masters. 


MEMORIES-   OF  A    MUSICAL   LIFE. 


75 


CHAPTER  VI. 

PAGANINI. 

WHO  is  this  man  who  rises  up  suddenly  in  the  world 
of  music,  and  whose  fame  passes  with  the  brightness 
and  rapidity  of  a  meteor  through  the  civilized  world  ; 
who,  at  the  moment  when  Baillot,  Spohr,  Rode,  and  Lafont 
seemed  to  have  explored  the  heights  and  depths  of  the  violin, 
opened  up  new  vistas  full  of  strange,  unparalleled  mysteries, 
and  gave  us  glimpses  into  a  hell,  purgatory,  and  paradise 
beyond  the  dreams  even  of  Dante  ;  whose  gaunt  and  super- 
natural figure  startled  and  fascinated  the  crowds  that  thronged 
about  him,  a  solitary  man  amongst  men,  but  so  unlike  them 
that  he  seemed  to  belong  to  another  race,  and  to  discourse 
in  the  weird  music  of  another  world  ;  who  bowed  to  none, 
yet  was  idolized  by  all  ;  whose  engagements  were  nego- 
tiated by  kings  and  ministers  ;  who  could  spurn  the  prayers 
of  princes  and  grand  duchesses,  and  yet  received  honor  at 
their  hands,  and  was  alternately  decorated  by  the  Pope,  and 
anathematized  by  the  clergy, — who  was  this  exceptional 
being  reigning  supreme  for  forty  years  without  a  rival  over 
the  conflicting  schools  of  Italy,  Germany,  and  France  ;  at 
whose  approach  the  greatest  masters  confessed  themselves 
vanquished ;  who,  although  he  set  the  fashions,  infected 
whole  populations,  invented  a  new  school,  vet,  in  his  own 
peculiar  greatness,  had  no  masters,  no  equals,  and  has  left 
no  followers?  This  man  who  has  stamped  so  indelible  an 
impression  of  himself  upon  the  musical  world,  whilst  his 
name  will  survive  as  the  synonym  of  wonder  and  mystery  to 
the  remote  ages,  —  this  Hercules  of  the  Violin  was  Nicolo 
Paganini. 

That  a  man's  grandmother,  or  even  his  father  and  mother, 
are  of  some  consequence  when  he  derives  lustre  or  gain  from 
them  of  any  kind,  no  one  will  deny  ;  but  when  he  sheds 
back  upon  them  the  onlv  kind  of  reflex  glory  which  they 
are  capable  of  receiving,  the  glory  of  an  imperishable  name, 


-o  MEMORIES    OF  A    ifUSICAl    LIFE 

no  one  will  blame  the  biographer  for  skipping  ■  tew  dull 
and  stupid  antecedents. 

Paganini  rv'v  mav  have  been  a  street  porter,  as  som< 
pretend  :  or  a  small  tradesman,  as  others,  probabl)  in  the 
right,  affirm.  He  was  a  sharp  man  ;  he  was  a  cruel  n 
he  did  overmuch  to  develop  his  son's  talents,  and  overmuch 
to  ruin  his  health,,  and.  probably,  is  chargeable  with  hav- 
ing .destroyed  has  mental  and  moral  equilibrium  for  life. 
Nicolo's  mother  was  a  sweet,  amiable  woman;  she  loved 
her  bo)  .  she  believed  in  him.  she  often  stood  between, 
and.  the  rod,  she  praved  tor  him,  and  saw  one  night  in  a 
%  ision  :■.  celestial  being,  who  told  her  that  the  bov  would 
become  the  greatest  violinist  that  ever  lived.  How  far  :':- 
dream.  which  she  lost  no  time  in  communicating  to  father 
and  son.  increased  the  father's  severity,  and  fired  the  hov's 
ambition,  we  cannot  tell  :  but  the  dream  seems  to  have  been 
a  well-established  fact,  and  vears  afterwards,  when  the 
m  thei  was  old,  and  the  son  al  his  zenith,  she  reminded  h  m 
of  it.  as  of  an  incident  which  had  been  familial  to  bol 
th<  m  thi  oughout  their  lives. 

Paganini  was  horn  at  Genoa  on  the  roth  February,  1784. 
Affcei  exhausting  bis  father's  instruction  he  was  taken  in 
hand  by  Signor  Servetto,  of  the  Genoese  theatre;  then 
Giacomo  Costa,  chapel-master,  taughl  him,  and  the  child 
was  ften  seen  pla\  og  the  Genoese  church.es  on  a  violin 
si  as  large  as  himself;  but.  like  Mozart  before  him. 
:  Mendelssohn  aftei  him,  Nicolowas  me  despaii  of  his 
masters,  who  were  in  (.v.:::  angry  with  his  innovations,  and 
..--.  oished  at  bis  prec  ci  as  facility.  In  his  ninth  yeai  m 
appear*  I  at  a  c  ocert,  elect  Bed  everj  one  w  I  1  varia- 

:    as     ■    th<    Fi  1  act  air,    La  Ca   1    g      fe.     This  b 
impel",  ed  hisavaric     is  father  1     lis*    versom*     oewk    . 

••■  ;  the  young  talent  was  :     be  press* 
squec  h     '      ts    tmost  In     I  rder  I  1     the  golden 

At  Parma  lived  the  celebrated  musician.  Ro'.la.      To  Rolla 

was  tin  taken  .  '  at  Rolls  was  ill.     Whilst  wail  •  _  in 

iv.   '  ttlc    N  ci  '     :     k  up  a  violin,  and  played  ofl 

at  sigh.t  some   difficult    music    which    he    found    lying  <  v.    the 

ble.     T  1  compt  sei    raised  himself  on  his  bi 

listen,  and  eagerb  the   great  master   was   w 

had  arrived,  and  was   plaving  in  his  anteroom  :     ••  A  mere 


MEMORIES   OE  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


77 


lad  ! —  impossible  !  "  But,  on  Paganini's  making  his  appear- 
ance as  an  humble  pupil,  Rolla  at  once  told  him  that  he 
could  teach  him  nothing.  Then  to  Paer,  who  was  glad  to 
make  his  difficult  charge  over  to  Ghiretti,  and  this  master 
gave  him  three  lessons  a  week  in  harmony  and  counterpoint. 
It  is  not  clear  that  this  extraordinary  genius  owed  much 
more  to  anyone  but  himself — his  indomitable  perseverance 
and  his  incessant  study.  His  method  is  to  be  noted.  For 
ten  or  twelve  hours  he  would  try  passages  over  and  over 
again  in  different  ways  with  such  absorption  and  intensity 
that  at  nightfall  he  would  sink  into  utter  prostration  through 
excessive  exhaustion  and  fatigue.  Though  delicate,  like  Men- 
delssohn, he  ate  at  times  ravenously,  and  slept  soundly. 
When  about  ten  he  wrote  twenty-four  fugues,  and  soon 
afterwards  composed  some  violin  music,  of  such  difficulty 
that  he  was  unable  at  first  to  play  it,  until  incessant  practice 
gave  him  the  mastery. 

In  1797  Paganini,  being  then  thirteen  years  old,  made  his 
first  professional  tour  ;  but  not  as  a  free  agent.  His  father  took 
him  through  the  chief  towns  of  Lombardy,  and  not  unnatu- 
rally prescribed  the  task  and  pocketed  the  proceeds.  But 
the  young  neck  was  already  beginning  to  chafe  against  the 
yoke.  In  1798  he  escaped,  with  his  father's  tardy  consent, 
to  Lucca,  where  a  musical  festival  in  honor  of  St.  Martin 
was  going  on.  He  there  gave  frequent  concerts,  and  was 
everywhere  met  with  applause,  and,  what  was  more  to  the 
purpose,  with  money.  Surrounded  by  men  of  inferior  talents, 
a  mere  inexperienced  boy,  without  education,  without  knowl- 
edge of  the  world,  with  nothing  but  ambition  and  his  su- 
preme musical  genius,  he  now  broke  wildly  away  from  all 
wise  restraints,  and  avenged  himself  upon  his  father's  severity 
by  many  youthful  excesses.  He  gambled  —  he  lost  —  he 
was  duped  by  his  companions  ;  but  he  made  money  so  fast 
that  he  soon  owned  about  £1,000.  It  is  pleasant  to  think 
that  heat  once  thought  of  giving  some  of  this  to  his  father 
and  mother  ;  it  is  unpleasant  to  record  that  his  father  claimed, 
and  eventually  got,  almost  the  whole  sum  from  him.  But  it 
did  not  much  matter  now,  for  everything  seemed  literally 
to  turn  into  gold  beneath  those  marvellous  fingers,  and  bad 
luck  proved  nearly  as  profitable  to  him  as  good. 

By  the  time  he  had  reached  seventeen  Paganini  was  a  con- 
firmed gambler.     He  had  little  left  but  his  Stradivarius  vio- 


J$  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE, 

lin,  and  this  he  was  on  the  point  of  selling  to  a  certain  prince, 
who  had  offered  him  ,£So,  a  large  sum  at  the  beginning  of 
this  century  even  for  a  Stradivarius.  Times  have  changed, 
and  in  this  latter  days  we  think  nothing  of  giving  £300  for 
a  genuine,  instrument  of  the  first  class.  But  the  reckless 
youth  determined  to  make  a  last  stand  for  his  violin.  ''Jew- 
els, watch,  rings,  brooches,"  to  use  his  own  words,  "  I  had 
disposed  of  all ;  my  thirty  francs  were  reduced  to  three. 
With  this  small  remains  of  my  capital  I  played,  and  won 
160  francs !  This  amount  saved  my  violin,  and  restored 
my  affairs,  From  that  time,"  he  adds,  "  I  abjured  gaming, 
to  which  I  had  sacrificed  a  part  of  my  youth,  convinced 
that  a  gamester  is  an  object  of  contempt  to  all  well-regulated 
minds."  The  violin  he  narrowly  missed  losing  was  given 
him  by  Parsini,  the  painter,  who  on  one  occasion  brought 
him  a  concerto  of  extraordinary  difficulty  to  read  at  sight, 
and,  placing  a  fine  Stradivarius  in  his  hands,  said,  "This 
instrument  shall  be  yours  if  you  can  play  that  concerto  at 
first  sight  in  a  masterly  manner." —  "  If  that  is  the  case," 
replied  Paganini,  "you  may  bid  adieu  to  it ;"  and  playing  it 
oft*  at  once  he  retained  the  violin.  Easy  come  —  easy  go. 
Some  years  later,  at  Leghorn,  being  again  in  great  straits,  he 
was  obliged  to  part,  for  a  time  at  least,  with  this  same  .Strad- 
ivarius ;  but  this  disaster  was  the  only  means  of  procuring 
him  the  favorite  Guarnerius,  upon  which  he  ever  afterwards 
played.  In  his  need  Monsieur  Livron,  a  distinguished 
amateur,  lent  him  this  splendid  instrument,  and  was  so  en- 
raptured by  his  playing  that  he  exclaimed,  "Never  will  I 
profane  the  strings  that  your  fingers  have  touched.  It  is  to 
you  that  my  violin  belongs."  This  violin  is  still  shown  at 
Genoa  under  a  glass  case. 

At  the  age  of  seventeen  Paganini  appears  to  have  been 
entirely  his  own  master,  weak  in  health,  nervous,  irritable, 
and  excitable  ;  his  wild  and  irregular  habits  and  pursuits 
were,  at  this  critical  age,  threatening  to  hurry  him  to  an 
early  grave,  when  an  event  occurred  which,  although  but 
too  characteristic  of  the  looseness  of  Italian  manners,  prob- 
ably saved  his  life. 

.Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  new  discoveries  and  unexam- 
pled successes,  Paganini  ceased  to  play  the  violin.  He  re- 
tired into  the  depths  of  the  country,  and  devoted  himself 
for  three  years  to  agricultural  pursuits,  and  to  the  society  of 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


79 


a  lady  of  rank  who  had  carried  him  off  to  her  Tuscan  es- 
tate, and  to  the  guitar.  With  the  sole  exception  of  the  late 
Regondi  no  such  genius  had  ever  been  concentrated  upon 
this  limited  and  effeminate  instrument.  But  the  lady's 
taste  ran  that  way,  and  the  great  violinist  lavished  for  a 
time  the  whole  force  of  his  originality  and  skill  upon  the 
light  guitar.  He  wrote  music  for  it,  and  imitated  it  on  the 
violin,  but  seldom  touched  it  in  after-life  until  quite  the  close, 
although,  as  we  shall  presently  see,  he  was  able  to  produce 
a  prodigious  effect  upon  it  when  he  chose.  These  days  of 
country  life  and  leisure,  during  which  he  was  delivered  from 
the  pressure  of  crowds,  the  excitement  of  public  perform- 
ances, and,  most  of  all,  the  grinding  anxieties  of  life,  had 
the  effect  of  bracing  him  up  in  health,  and  prepared  him  for 
that  reaction  towards  intense  study  and  exhausting  toil 
which  left  him  without  a  rival, —  the  first  violinist  in  the 
world. 

In  1S04  he  returned  to  Genoa,  where  he  seems,  amongst 
other  things,  to  have  given  lessons  to  a  young  girl  of  fifteen, 
named  Catherine  Calcagno,  who  appears  to  have  caught 
something  of  his  style,  and  to  have  astonished  Italy  for  a 
few  years,  but  after  1S16  we  hear  no  more  of  her.  And 
now  the  neglected  violin  was  taken  up  once  again,  but  this 
time  with  maturer  powers  and  settled  intentions.  There  is 
a  strange  thoroughness  about  Paganini, —  nothing  which 
any  previous  musician  knew  or  had  done  must  be  unknown 
or  left  undone  by  him  ;  there  was  to  be  no  hitting  him  be- 
tween the  joints  of  his  armor ;  no  loophole  of  imperfection 
anywhere.  He  now  occupied  himself  solely  with  the  study 
of  his  instrument,  and  with  composition, —  wrote  four  grand 
quartettes  for  violin,  viol,  guitar,  and  violoncello ;  and 
bravura  variations  with  guitar  accompaniment.  At  the  age 
of  twenty-one  (1805)  he  made  a  second  professional  tour, 
passing  through  Lucca  and  Piombino,  and  in  one  convent 
church,  where  he  played  a  concerto,  the  excitement  was  so 
great  that  the  monks  had  to  leave  their  seats  to  silence  the 
uproar  in  the  congregation.  It  was  at  the  end  of  this  tour 
that  Napoleon's  sister,  the  Princess  Eliza,  offered  the  new 
violinist  the  direction  of  the  Court  music,  and  gave  him  the 
grade  of  captain  in  the  Royal  Guard,  with  the  privilege  of 
wearing  that  officer's  brilliant  uniform  on  state  occasions. 

Between    1805    and    181 2,  whilst    in  the   service    of  the 


80  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 

Princess  Eliza,  afterwards  Grand  Duchess  of  Tuscany, 
Paganini  probably  reached  his  acme  of  power,  if  not  of 
fame.  He  had  for  years  been  at  work  upon  new  effects  and 
combinations  ;  but,  at  the  very  time  when  each  new  exploit 
was  being  greeted  with  frantic  applause,  he  betook  himself  to 
an  exhaustive  study  of  the  old  masters.  Something  he  seemed 
to  be  groping  after  —  some  clue  he  wished  to  find.  How 
often  had  he  thrown  over  Viotti,  Pugnani,  Kreutzer !  How 
often  had  he  returned  to  their  works !  All  were  found 
utterly  inadequate  to  suggest  to  him  a  single  fresh  thought, 
and  it  was  nothing  short  of  a  new  world  that  he  was  bound 
to  discover. 

In  studying  the  ninth  work  of  Locatelli,  entitled  "  L'Arte 
de  Nouva  Modulazione  "  his  brain  was  set  suddenly  a-going 
in  the  peculiar  direction  of  his  new  aspirations.  Every 
original  genius  seeks  some  such  clue  or  point  of  departure. 
Something  in  Locatelli's  method  inflamed  Paganini  with 
those  conceptions  of  simultaneous  notes  struck  in  different 
parts  of  the  instrument;  the  hitherto  unknown  management 
of  the  screws,  in  which  the  violin  was  tuned  all  sorts  of 
ways  to  reach  effects  never  heard  before  or  since  ;  the  har- 
monic flying  out  at  all  points,  the  arpeggios  and  pizzicatos, 
of  which  more  anon, —  these,  which  were  in  after-years 
brought  to  such  perfection,  were  born  out  of  infinite  study 
and  practice,  under  the  stimulating  influence  of  the  Grand 
Duchess  and  her  Court. 

It  is  at  this  season  of  his  life  that  Paganini  appears  most 
like  other  people  ;  the  idol  of  the  Court,  untouched  as  yet 
by  any  definite  malady,  occupying  an  official  post,  and  sys- 
tematically laboring  to  perfect  a  talent  which  already  seemed 
too  prodigious  to  belong  to  anyone  man,  — all  conditions 
seemed  most  favorable  to  his  peace  and  pleasure,  could  they 
have  only  lasted  ;  but  this  was  not  possible.  They  continued 
until  he  had  achieved  the  last  step  in  the  ladder  of  con- 
summate skill,  and  no  longer.  Probably  all  his  executive 
peculiarities  were  developed  at  this  time.  It  was  at  Flor- 
ence, for  instance  (and  not  in  a  prison),  that  Paganini  first 
played  upon  onlv  two  —  the  first  and  fourth  —  strings,  and 
then  upon  one  —  the  fourth  —  string.  Being  in  love  with  a 
lady  of  the  Court,  who  reciprocated  his  attachment,  he  gave 
out  that  he  would  depict  upon  his  violin  a  Scene  Atnon- 
reuse;  the  treble  string,  we  presume,  was  the  lady,  and  the 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL    LIFE.  8l 

fourth  string  the  gentleman.  The  emotional  dialogue  was 
carried  on  between  the  two  in  a  manner  which  fairly  over- 
came the  audience  with  delight,  and  led  to  the  Grand 
Duchess  requesting  him  to  try  one  string  alone  next  time. 
How  he  succeeded  in  that  exploit  is  known  to  all  the  world, 
for  he  ever  afterwards  retained  an  extreme  partiality  for  the 
fourth  string. 

In  1S08  he  obtained  from  the  Grand  Duchess  leave  to 
travel.  His  fame  had  preceded  him.  Leghorn,  where 
seven  years  before  he  had  forfeited  his  famous  Stradivarius 
and  won  a  Guarnerius,  received  him  with  open  arms, 
although  his  appearance  was  marked  by  an  amusing  con- 
tretemps. He  came  on  to  the  stage  limping,  having  run  a 
nail  into  his  heel.  At  all  times  odd-looking,  he.  no  doubt, 
looked  all  the  more  peculiar  under  these  circumstances,  and 
there  was  some  tittering  among  the  audience.  Just  as  he 
began,  the  candles  fell  out  of  his  desk  —  more  laughter. 
He  went  on  playing  ;  the  first  string  broke  —  more  laughter. 
He  played  the  rest  of  the  concerto  through  on  three  strings, 
but  the  laughter  now  changed  to  vociferous  applause  at  this 
feat.  The  beggarly  elements  seemed  of  little  consequence 
to  this  magician.  One  or  more  strings,  it  was  all  the  same 
to  him  ;  indeed,  it  is  recorded  that  he  seldom  paused  to 
mend  his  strings  when  they  broke,  which  they  not  unfre- 
quently  did.  Whether  from  abstraction  or  carelessness  he 
would  allow  them  at  times  to  grow  quite  ragged  on  the 
finger-board,  and  his  constant  practice  of  plucking  them, 
guitar-like,  with  the  left  hand,  as  well  as  harp-like,  with 
the  fore-finger  of  the  right  hand,  helped,  no  doubt,  to  wear 
them  out  rapidly. 

At  Ferrara  both  he  and  his  violin  met  with  a  different 
reception.  A  singer  had  failed  him,  and  he  had  induced  a 
danseuse  who  had  a  pretty  voice  to  come  to  the  rescue. 
Some  graceless  fellow  in  the  audience  hissed  her  singing, 
which  caused  Paganini  to  take  a  revenge  little  suited  to  the 
occasion.  In  his  last  solo  he  imitated  the  cries  of  various 
animals,  and,  suddenly  advancing  to  the  foot-lights,  caused 
his  violin  to  bray  like  an  ass,  with  the  exclamation,  "  This 
is  for  him  who  hissed  !"  Instead  of  laughter,  the  pit  rose  in 
fury  and  would  have  soon  made  short  work  of  him  and  his 
violin,  had  he  not  escaped  by  a  back  door.  It  appears 
that    the    country    folk    round    Ferrara    called    the    town's 


Sz  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 

people,  whom  they  hated,  "  asses,"  and  were  inthe  habit  of 
singing  out  "  Hee-haw  !  "  whenever  they  had  to  allude  to 
them ;  hence  the  angry  reception  of  Paganini's  musical 
repartee. 

We  get  but  fugitive  glances  of  the  great  artist  during  this 
professional  tour  ;  but  it  is  too  true  that  at  Turin  he  was 
attacked  with  that  bowel  complaint  which  ever  afterwards 
haunted  him  like  an  evil  demon,  causing  him  the  most 
frightful  and  protracted  suffering,  and  interrupting  his 
career  sometimes  for  months  together.  His  distrust  of 
doctors,  and  lack  of  quack  medicines,  no  doubt  made 
matters  worse,  and  from  this  time  his  strange  appearance 
grew  stranger,  his  pallor  more  livid,  his  gauntness  and 
thinness  more  spectral  and  grotesque ;  whilst,  greatly  no 
doubt,  in  consequence  of  suftering,  his  face  assumed  that 
look  of  eagle  sharpness,  sometimes  varied  by  a  sardonic  grin, 
of  a  look  of  almost  demoniacal  fury,  which  artists  have  cari- 
catured, and  sculptors  have  tried  to  tone  down.  Indeed, 
he  must  have  been  altogether  an  exceptional  being  to  behold 
in  the  flesh.  People  who  knew  him  say  that  the  figure 
which  used  still  to  be  exhibited  at  Madame  Tussaud's.  same 
twenty-five  years  ago,  was  a  remarkable  likeness.  He 
looked  like  an  indifferently  dressed  skeleton,  with  a  long 
parchment  face,  deep,  dark  eyes,  full  of  flame,  long,  lank 
hair,  straggling  down  over  his  shoulders.  His  walk  was 
shambling  and  awkward  ;  the  bones  seem  to  have  been 
badly  strung  together  ;  he  appeared  as  if  he  had  been  fixed 
up  nastily  on  wires  and  the  wires  had  got  loose.  As  he 
stood,  he'settled  himself  on  one  hip.  at  a  gaunt  angle,  and 
before  he  began,  the  whole  business  looked  so  unpromising 
that  men  wondered  how  he  could  hold  his  violin  at  all, 
much  less  play  it. 

It  must  have  been  at  his  first  visit  to  Florence,  before  his 
appearance  was  familiar,  as  it  afterwards  became,  to  the 
inhabitants  of  that  city,  that  we  get  one  of  those  side- 
views  of  the  man  which  are  more  precious  than  many  dates 
and  drier  details. 

Slowly  recovering  from  illness,  Paginini  repaired  to 
Florence,  probably  in  May  of  the  year  1809.  He  must 
have  then  lived  in  almost  complete  solitude,  as  he  does  not 
appear  to  have  been  recognized  there  before  the  month  of 
October,  when  he  was  officially  recalled  to  his  duties  by  the 


MEMORIES   OE  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  £3 

late  princess,  now  Grand  Duchess  at  the  Court  of  Flor- 
ence. 

Those  who  have  wandered  in  spring-time  about  the  en- 
virons of  Florence  know  the  indefinite  charm  there  is  in  the 
still  and  fertile  country,  without  the  walls  of  the  city.  Out- 
side the  gate  of  the  Pitti,  on  the  summit  of  a  steep  hill, 
stands  Fiesole,  bathed  in  clear  air  and  warm  sunshine. 
How  many  an  invalid  has  walked  up  that  winding  and 
rugged  path,  gathering,  here  and  there,  a  sweet  wild-flower, 
resting  from  time  to  time  to  drink  in  the  delicious  air,  until 
pure  health  seemed  borne  back  to  the  feeble  frame  upon  the 
soft  and  fragrant  breeze  ! 

Alone,  on  a  bright  morning,  a  tall,  ungainly  figure  goes 
slowly  up  the  hill  towards  Fiesole.  He  pauses  at  times ;  he 
looks  round  abstractedly.  He  is  talking  to  himself  out  loud, 
unconscious  of  any  one  near  him  ;  he  gesticulates  wildly, 
then  breaks  out  into  a  loud  laugh  ;  but  stops  suddenly,  as 
he  sees  coming  down  the  hill  a  young  girl,  carrying  one  of 
those  large  baskets  full  of  flowers  so  commonly  seen  in  the 
streets  of  Florence.  She  is  beautiful  with  the  beauty  of  the 
Florentine  girls ;  the  brown  flesh-tints  mellowed  with  re- 
flected light  from  the  white  road  strewn  thick  with  marble- 
dust  :  under  the  wide  straw  hat  the  free  curls  flow  dark  and 
thick,  clustering  about  her  temples,  and  lowering  the  fore- 
head. Suddenly  the  large  black  eyes,  so  common  amongst 
the  Italian  peasants,  seemed  transfixed  with  something 
between  wonder  and  fear,  as  they  fall  upon  the  uncouth 
figure  approaching  her.  In  another  moment,  conscious  of 
the  stranger's  intense  gaze,  she  stands  motionless,  like  a 
bird  charmed  by  a  serpent ;  then  she  trembles  involuntarily, 
from  head  to  foot.  A  strange  smile  steals  over  the  pale  and 
haggard  face  of  Paganini  ;  was  he,  then,  conscious  of  exer- 
cising any  mesmeric  power?  At  times  he  seemed  so  full 
of  some  such  influence  that  individuals,  as  well  as  crowds, 
were  irresistibly  drawn  and  fascinated  by  his  look. 

But  the  strange  smile  seemed  to  unloose  the  spell ;  the 
startled  girl  passed  on,  and  the  solitary  artist  resumed  his 
walk  towards  Fiesole. 

Heavy  clouds,  riven  with  spaces  of  light,  were  driving 
before  the  wind.  Over  the  bridge  Delle  Grazie,  up  the  hill 
once  more  without  the  gates  of  Florence,  we  pass  towards  a 


S4  MEMORIES  OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

ruined  castle.  A  storm  seems  imminent ;  the  wind  whistles 
and  howls  round  the  deserted  promontory  ;  the  bare  ruin 
that  has  braved  the  storms  of  centuries  stands  up  dark 
against  the  sky,  and  seems  to  exult  in  the  fury  of  the  ele- 
ments, so  much  in  harmony  with  its  own  wild  and  desolate 
look.  But  what  are  those  low  wailings?  Is  it  the  wind,  or 
some  human  being  in  anguish?  The  traveller  rushes  for- 
ward ;  in  a  cavity  of  the  deep  ruin,  amongst  the  tumbled 
stones,  o'ergrown  with  moss  and  turf,  lies  a  strange  figure, 
—  a  lonely,  haggard  man.  He  listens  to  the  wind,  and 
moans  in  answer,  as  though  in  pain.  Is  he  the  magician 
who  has  conjured  up  the  tempest,  and  is  the  scene  before  us 
all  unreal?  or  has  the  tempest  entered  into  his  soul,  and 
filled  him  with  its  own  sad  voice?  Indeed,  as  he  lies  there, 
his  pale,  almost  livid  face  distorted,  his  wet  hair  streaming 
wildly  about  his  shoulders,  his  uncouth  form  writhing  with 
each  new  burst  of  the  hurricane,  he  looks  the  very  imperson- 
ation of  the  storm  itself.  But,  on  being  observed,  his  look 
becomes  fixed  ;  the  stranger  insensibly  recoils,  and  feels 
awkwardly  the  sense  of  intrusion.  If  the  strange  man  is  in 
pain  he  wants  no  help  ;  thus  rashly  exposed  to  the  weather, 
hardly  recovered  from  his  grievous  malady,  he  may  well  be 
actually  suffering ;  but  most  likely  he  is  merely  possessed 
for  the  time  by  certain  emotions  impressed  upon  his  sensitive 
and  electric  organization  by  the  tempest  from  without.  He 
is  drinking  in  the  elementary  forces  which,  by-and-by,  he 
will  give  out  with  a  power  itself  almost  as  elemental. 

Some  of  us  may  have  walked  in  the  soft  moonlight  under 
the  long  avenue  (Cascine)  that  runs  by  the  brink  of  the 
rushing  Arno  straight  out  of  Florence.  We  can  remember 
how  the  birds  love  those  trees,  and  the  broken  underwood 
beneath  them.  When  the  city  sleeps  the  heart  of  those 
woods  is  alive ;  even  the  daylight  birds  are  sometimes 
aroused  by  the  nightingales,  as  they  answer  each  other  in 
notes  of  sweetness  long  drawn  out,  and  tender  raptures  that 
seem  to  swoon  and  faint  into  the  still  more  tender  silences 
of  the  summer  night.  But  suddenly  the  birds'  song  is 
checked  ;  other  strains  of  incomparable  sweetness  arise  in 
the  wood.  The  birds  are  silent ;  they  pause  and  listen  :  the 
notes  are  like  theirs,  but  more  exquisite ;  they  are  woven 
by  a  higher  art  into  phrases  of  inspiration  beyond  even  the 
nightingale's   gift.     The  strange    whistler    ceases,  and    the 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE.  85 

birds  resume,  timidly,  their  song ;  again  the  unearthly  mu- 
sic breaks  forth,  and  mingles  with  theirs.  As  we  push 
apart  the  bushes,  we  discover  the  same  weird  figure  that 
but  lately  lay  moaning  in  the  storm  among  the  ruins  upon 
yonder  hill. 

The  person  to  whom  we  owe,  substantially,  the  above 
glimpses,  met  this  extraordinary  man  again  in  the  streets  of 
Florence  a  few  days  later.  A  merry  party  of  young  people, 
laughing  and  shouting,  pass  by  towards  the  Uffizzi ;  we 
listen  to  their  ringing  voices,  occupied  with  themselves,  and, 
youth-like,  caring  for  nothing  at  the  time  but  their  own 
gayety,  when  suddenly  the  voices  fall,  the  twanging  of  the 
guitar  ceases,  a  curious  murmur  runs  through  the  merry 
throng,  and  not  a  pleasant  murmur:  a  tall,  pale  man,  with 
eyes  on  fire,  and  strange,  imperious  look,  has  pushed 
brusquely  in  amongst  them.  He  seizes  the  guitar,  and, 
sweeping  its  strings  with  passion,  causes  it  to  wail  like  a 
zither,  then  peal  out  like  the  strains  of  a  military  band,  and 
finally  settle  into  the  rich  chords  and  settled  cadences  of  a 
strong  harp.  All  resistance  and  murmuring  cease  as  the 
astonished  party  follow  him,  spellbound.  His  cravat  flies 
loose,  his  coat-tails  wave  madly  to  and  fro  :  he  gesticulates 
like  a  maniac,  and  the  irresistible  music  streams  forth 
louder,  wilder,  more  magical  than  ever ;  he  strides,  leaps, 
dances  forward  with  the  guitar,  which  is  no  longer  a 
guitar,  but  the  very  soul  of  Nicolo  Paganini.  A  few  days 
later  still  the  mystery  was  cleared  up.  Paganini  had  been 
officially  called  to  Florence  by  the  Grand  Duchess  to  super- 
intend the  Court  concerts,  and  the  whole  of  the  town  was 
soon  ringing  with  his  name. 

About  the  age  of  thirty,  at  which  time,  as  we  shall 
presently  narrate,  Paganini  became  free,  never  again  to  be 
bound  by  any  official  appointment,  the  great  violinist  had 
exhausted  all  the  possible  resources  of  his  instrument. 
From  this  time  Paganini,  incredible  as  it  may  appear, 
seldom,  if  ever,  played,  except  at  concerts  and  rehearsals, 
and  not  always  even  at  rehearsals.  If  he  ever  practised,  he 
always  used  a  mute.  Mr.  Harris,  who  for  twelve  months 
acted  as  his  secretary,  and  seldom  left  him,  never  saw  him 
take  his  violin  from  its  case.  At  the  hotels  where  he 
stopped  the  sound  of  his  instrument  was  never  heard.      He 


$6  MEMORIES   OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE. 

used  to  say  that  he  had  worked  enough,  and  had  earned  his 
right  to  repose  ;  yet,  without  an  effort,  he  continued  to  over- 
come the  superhuman  difficulties  which  he  himself  had 
created  with  the  same  unerring  facility,  and  ever  watched 
by  the  eager  and  envious  eyes  of  critics  and  rivals.  In  vain  ! 
No  false  intonation,  no  note  out  of  tune,  no  failure,  was  ever 
perceptible.  The  Times  critic,  reviewing  him  in  London 
some  years  before  his  death,  says  his  octaves  were  so  true 
that  they  sounded  like  one  note,  and  the  most  enormous 
intervals  with  triple  notes,  harmonics,  and  guitar  effects, 
seem  to  have  been  invariably  taken  with  the  same  precision. 
In  the  words  of  a  critical  judge,  M.  Fetis,  "  his  hand  was  a 
geometrical  compass,  which  divided  the  finger-board  with 
mathematical  precision."  There  is  an  amusing  story  told 
of  an  Englishman,  who  followed  him  from  place  to  place, 
to  hear  him  play  in  private,  in  the  hope  of  discovering  his 
'•  secret."  At  last,  after"  man}-  vain  attempts,  he  managed 
to  get  lodged  in  the  next  room  to  the  great  artist.  Looking 
through  the  keyhole,  he  beheld  him  seated  on  a  sofa,  about 
to  take  his  violin  from  its  case — at  last !  He  raises  it  to 
his  chin  —  but  the  bow?  —  is  left  in  the  case.  The  left 
hand  merely  measures  with  its  enormous  wiry  fingers  a  few 
mechanical  intervals,  and  the  instrument  is  replaced  in 
silence  ;    not  even   then  was  a  note  to  be  heard. 

Yet  every  detail  of  rehearsal  was  an  anxiety  to  him. 
Although  he  gave  a  prodigious  number  of  concerts  he  was 
always  unusually  restless  and  abstracted  on  the  morning  of 
the  day  on  which  he  had  to  perform.  He  would  be  idle  for 
hours  on  his  sofa  ;  or,  at  least,  he  seemed  to  be  idle  — per- 
haps the  works  were  then  being  wound  up  before  going  to 
rehearsal ;  he  would  then,  before  starting,  take  up  his 
violin,  examine  it  carefully,  especially  the  screws,  and, 
having  satisfied  himself,  replace  it  in  its  shabbv,  worn  case 
without  striking  a  note.  Lastly,  he  would  sort  and  arrange 
the  orchestral  parts  of  his  solos,  and  go  off  to  rehearsal.  He 
was  very  unpunctual,  and  on  one  occasion  kept  the  whole 
band  waiting  for  an  hour,  and  was  at  last  found  sheltering 
from  the  rain  under  a  colonnade,  rather  than  take  a  cab. 
This  was  in  London.  At  the  rehearsal  there  was  always 
the  most  intense  eagerness  on  the  part  of  the  band  to  hear 
him  play,  and  when  he  came  to  one  of  his  prodigious 
cadenzas  the  musicians  would  rise  in  their  seats,  and  lean 


MEMORIES   OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE.  S7 

forward  to  watch  every  movement,  arid  follow  every  sound. 
Paganini  would  then  just  play  a  few  commonplace  notes, 
stop  suddenly,  and,  turning  round  to  the  band,  wave  his 
bow,  with  a  malicious  smile,  and  say,  "  Et  caetera, 
messieurs !  "  If  anything  went  wrong  he  got  into  a 
paroxysm  of  fury ;  but  when  things  went  well  he  freely 
showed  his  satisfaction,  and  often  exclaimed,  "  Bravissimo 
sieti  tuti  virtuosi ! "  He  could  be  very  courteous  in  his 
manner,  and  was  not  personally  unpopular  with  his  fellow- 
musicians,  who  stood  greatly  in  awe  of  him.  No  one  ever 
saw  the  principal  parts  of  his  solos,  as  he  played  by  heart, 
for  fear  of  the  music  being  copied.  The  rehearsal  over,  he 
carried  even  the  orchestral  parts  away  with  him.  He 
would  then  go  straight  home,  take  a  light  meal,  throw  him- 
self on  his  bed,  and  sleep  profoundly  until  his  carriage 
arrived  to  take  him  to  the  concert.  His  toilet  was  very 
simple,  and  took  hardly  any  time  ;  his  coat  was  Luttoned 
tightly  over  his  chest,  and  marked  the  more  conspicuously 
the  impossible  angles  of  his  figure  ;  his  trousers  hung  loose 
for  trousers  of  the  period  ;  his  cravat  was  tight  about  his 
neck.  He  sweated  so  profusely  over  his  solos,  that  he 
always  carried  a  clean  shirt  in  his  violin  trunk,  and  changed 
his  linen  once  at  least  during  the  concert.  At  concert  time 
he  usually  seemed  in  excellent  spirits.  His  first  question  on 
arriving  was  always,  "  Is  there  a  large  audience?"  If  the 
room  was  full  he  would  say,  "Excellent  people!  good, 
good  !  "  If  by  any  chance  the  boxes  were  empty  he  would 
say,  "  Some  of  the  effects  will  be  lost."  He  kept  his 
audience  waiting  a  long  time,  and  he  would  sometimes  say, 
"  I  have  plaved  better,"  or,  "  I  have  played  worse."  and 
occasionally  his  first  solo  would  be  more  effective  than  his 
last.  After  once  or  twice  trying  the  music  of  Kreutzer 
and  Rode  in  public,  he  decided  never  to  play  any  but  his 
own,  and  said  to  his  secretary,  Mr.  Harris,  "  I  have  my 
own  peculiar  style  ;  in  accordance  with  this  I  regulate  my 
compositions.  I  had  much  rather  write  a  piece  in  which  I 
can  trust  myself  entirely  to  my  own  musical  impressions." 
"  His  art,"  observes  M.  F6tis,  "  was  an  art  born  with  him, 
the  secret  of  which  he  has  carried  to  the  grave." 

Some  have  pretended  that,  as  Paganini  never  cared  to 
play  except  in  public,  his  art  was  nothing  to  him  but  a 
means  of  making  money.     It  would  be,  perhaps,  nearer  the 


88  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 

truth  to  say  that  his  art  was  so  entirely  himself,  that  he  did 
not  require,  except  at  seasons,  and  chiefly  for  others,  to 
give  it  outward  expression.  He  needed  no  more  to  play 
than  Beethoven  needed  to  hear.  Happier  than  Beethoven, 
he  was  not  deprived  of  the  power  of  realizing  outwardly  the 
art  in  which  he  inwardly  lived  ;  but  probably  the  creations 
of  his  spirit  infinitely  outstripped  the  utmost  limits  even  of 
his  executive  powers,  until  in  his  eyes  they  seemed,  after 
all,  the  faint  and  inadequate  symbols  of  his  wild  and 
inspired  dreams.  There  are  times  when  the  deepest  feeling 
is  the  most  silent —  music  may  come  to  the  aid  of  words ; 
but  there  is  a  point  at  which  music  itself  is  a  mere  heggarlv 
element.  What  made  Paganini  so  exceptionally  great  was 
the  portentous  development,  the  strength  and  independence 
of  the  emotional  fountain  within.  The  whole  of  life  was  to 
him  nothing  but  so  many  successions  of  psychological  heat 
and  cold.  Incidents  immediately  became  clothed  with  a 
psychic  atmosphere  ;  perhaps  the  life  of  emotion  was  never 
so  completely  realized  in  itself,  and  for  itself,  as  in  the  soul- 
isolation  of  Paganini.  That  life,  as  far  as  it  could  be  in- 
dividually expressed,  was  uttered  forth  by  his  violin.  On 
his  concert  bills  he  used  to  put :  — 

"Paganini  fara  sentire  il  suo  violino." 

What  the  tempest  had  told  him  his  violin  would  proclaim  ; 
what  the  summer  night  had  whispered  was  stereotyped  in 
his  soul,  and  the  midnight  song  of  birds  came  forth  from 
the  Cremona  depths  at  his  bidding.  Nor  was  there  any 
phase  of  passion  unknown  to  him,  save,  alas  !  the  phase  of 
a  pure  and  lasting  love.  His  wild  soul  had  early  consumed 
itself  with  unbridled  excesses,  and,  although  in  his  maturer 
years  he  grew  more  sober  in  such  matters,  it  was  not  before 
he  had  fathomed  the  perilous  depths  of  more  than  one 
gratide  passion,  and  made  himself  master  of  all  its  subtle 
expressions. 

When,  then,  we  are  told  that  he  seldom  played,  we  must 
remember  that  his  inmost  life  was  itself  one  vast  cosmos  ot 
imaginary  concord  and  discord  :  he  was  music,  although 
only  at  times  "  the  tides  of  music's  golden  sea  "  would  burst 
forth  with  incomparable  splendor,  and  gather  a  kind  of 
concrete  existence  in  sound  ;  yet  to  him  his  own  inspirations 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  89 

were  as  real  —  perhaps  more  real  — without  it.  For  music 
exists  apart  from  physical  vibrations,  nor  can  such  vibra- 
tions, however  subtle  and  varied,  express  it  wholly  as  it 
lives  in  the  creative  heart.  The  ear  of  the  soul  hears  what 
no  ear  of  sense  can  hear,  and  a  music  fairer  than  anything 
on  earth  is  often  sounding  in  the  spirit  of  the  true  musical 
seer.  Nay,  does  he  not  feel,  like  Beethoven,  the  bitter 
descent  when  he  formulates  his  thoughts  upon  paper,  strikes 
the  keys,  or  sets  in  vibration  the  strings  which,  after  all,  are 
but  feeble  apologies  for  the  ideal  beauty,  the  intense,  the 
subtle,   or  exalted   harmonies  of  the  inner  life? 

Shall  we  now  assist  at  one  of  Paganini's  performances? 
How  many  descriptions  have  been  written,  and  how  inade- 
quate !  It  is  hardly  possible  to  do  more  than  describe  a  few 
salient  peculiarities.  But  even  our  pale  sketch  would  be 
incomplete  without  such  an  attempt. 

Enter  Paganini :  a  shudder  of  curiosity  and  excitement 
runs  through  the  crowded  theatre  ;  the  men  applaud,  the 
women  concentrate  a  double-barrel  fire  of  opera-glasses 
upon  the  tall,  ungainly  figure  that  shuffles  forward  from  the 
side  scenes  to  the  foot-lights,  with  such  an  air  of  haughti- 
ness, and  yet  so  many  mechanical  bows.  As  the  applause 
rises  again  and  again,  the  apparition  stands  still,  looks 
round,  takes  in  at  a  glance  the  vast  assembly.  Then, 
seizing  his  violin,  he  hugs  it  tightly  between  his  chin  and 
chest,  and  stands  for  a  few  seconds  gazing  at  it  in  motion- 
less abstraction.  The  audience  is  now  .completely  hushed, 
and  all  eyes  are  riveted  upon  one  silent  and  almost  gro- 
tesque form.  Suddenly  Paganini  raises  his  bow  and  dashes 
it  down  like  a  sledge-hammer  upon  the  strings.  The  open- 
ing of  the  concerto  abounds  in  solo  passages,  in  which  he 
has  to  be  left  almost  without  accompaniment ;  the  orchestra 
is  reserved  for  the  tuttis  and  slight  interludes.  Paganini 
now  revels  in  his  distinctive  and  astonishing  passages, 
which  hold  the  audience  breathless.  At  one  time  torrents 
of  chords  peal  forth,  as  from  some  mimic  orchestra  ;  har- 
monic passages  are  thrown  off  with  the  sharpness  and 
sonority  of  the  flute  accompanied  by  the  guitar,  indepen- 
dent phrases  being  managed  .by  the  left  hand  plucking  the 
strings,  whilst  the  right  is  playing  legato  passages  with  the 
bow.  The  most  difficult  intervals  are  spanned  with  ease  ; 
the  immense,  compass-like  fingers  glide  up  and  down  every 


9° 


MEMORIES   OE  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


part  of  the  key-board,  and  seem  to  be  in  ever  so  many  places  ■ 
at  once.  Heavy  chords  are  struck  indifferently  with  the 
point  or  heel  of  the  bow,  as  if  each  inch  of  the  magic  wand 
were  equally  under  control ;  but,  just  when  these  prodigious 
feats  of  skill  are  causing  the  senses  to  reel  with  something 
like  a  painful  strain,  a  low,  measured  melody  steals  forth 
and  penetrates  the  souls  of  all  present,  until  some  of  the 
audience  break  out  into  uncontrollable  applause,  whilst 
others  are  melted  to  tears,  overpowered  by  the  thrilling 
accents.  Then,  attenuated  as  it  were  to  a  thread,  — but  still 
distinctly  audible  and  resonant,  — thedivine  sound  would  die 
away,  and  suddenly  a  grotesque  flash  of  humor  would 
dart  up  from  a  lower  sphere,  and  shift  the  emotional  atmos- 
phere, as  the  great  maestro  too  soon  dashes,  with  the  im- 
petuosity of  a  whirlwind,  into  the  final  'k  rondo"  or  "  moto 
perpetuo." 

Paganini  was  not  inexorable  about  encores ;  he  was 
always  gratified  by  applause.  After  the  concert  the  people 
often  waited  outside  to  accompany  him  to  his  hotel.  He 
seemed  delighted  with  this  kind  of  homage,  and  would  go 
out  at  such  seasons  and  mix  freely  with  them  ;  but  he 
was  often  quite  inaccessible,  and  bent  upon  absolute  seclu- 
sion. 

Let  us  now  resume  the  chronological  narrative.  Towards 
the  end  of  1812  Paganini  quarrelled  with  his  royal  patron- 
ess, the  Grand  Duchess  of  Tuscany.  She  had  given  him 
leave,  as  above  mentioned,  to  wear  at  Court  the  uniform  of 
captain  of  the  body-guard,  and  one  night  he  appeared  in  the 
orchestra  attired  in  this  splendid  costume.  The  duchess 
seems  to  have  thought  this  inappropriate,  and  sent  word 
desiring  him  to  change  his  uniform  for  an  ordinary  dress. 
The  offended  artist  declined  point-blank,  and  that  evening 
threw  up  his  appointment  and  left  the  Florentine  Court  and 
all  its  works  forever.  It  is  not  at  all  improbable  that  Paga- 
nini, who  could  now  command  any  sum  of  money,  had 
grown  tired  of  official  duties,  which  could  no  longer  shed 
any  new  lustre  upon  him,  and  that,  longing  to  be  free,  he 
gladly  availed  himself  of  the  first  ready  pretext  for  flight. 
In  vain  his  royal  mistress  sent  after  him,  imploring  him  to 
return.  Paganini  was  inexorable,  and  it  was  even  whis- 
pered   that    the    duchess's  entreaties  were    prompted   by  a 


MEMORIES   OE  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


91 


feeling  still  more  tender  than  the  love  of  music,  —  a  feeling 
which  Paganini  had  ceased  to  reciprocate. 

Faginini  was  very  fond  of  Milan,  and  he  stayed  there 
during  the  greater  part  of  1S13.  He  visited  that  city  three 
times  in  five  years,  staying  often  for  several  months,  and 
giving  in  all  thirty-seven  concerts,  most  of  them  at  the 
Scala. 

It  was  in  1S14  that  he  first  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Rossini,  at  Bologna.  The  great  composer,  like  every  other 
connoisseur,  regarded  him  with  admiration  and  astonish- 
ment, and  a  friendship  was  then  begun  which  was  strength- 
ened when  the  two  celebrities  met  in  181 7  at  Rome,  and  in 
1  S3 1  at  Paris. 

Paganini  treated  his  fellow-musicians  and  rivals  with  sim- 
ple and  unaffected  courtesy.  He  expressed  his  great  admira- 
tion of  Spohr's  violin-playing,  and  he  went  all  the  way  from 
Genoa  to  Milan  to  hear  Lafont.  When  they  met,  Lafont 
proposed  that  they  should  give  a  concert,  in  which  each 
should  play  a  solo.  "  I  excused  myself."  says  Paganini, 
"  by  saying  that  such  experiments  are  always  impolitic, 
as  the  public  invariably  looked  upon  them  as  duels. 
Lapont,  not  seeing  it  in  this  light,  I  was  compelled  to 
accept  the  challenge."  Commenting  upon  the  results,  he 
added,  with  singular  candor  and  modesty,  "  Lafont  prob- 
ably surpassed  me  in  tone  ;  but  the  applause  which  followed 
my  efforts  convinced  me  that  I  did  not  suffer  by  com- 
parison." Although  unusually  anxious,  more  for  the  sake 
of  others  than  for  himself,  to  avoid  such  contests,  he 
never  declined  them;  and  a  similar  trial  of  skill  look 
place  between  him  and  the  Polish  violinist,  Laprinski.  in 
181S,  at  Plaisance,  the  two  artists  remaining  excellent 
friends. 

At  this  time  Paganini's  health  seems  to  have  been  in  an 
unusually  critical  condition.  We  have  noticed  that  he 
seldom  consulted  doctors,  and  when  he  did  so  he  was  not 
in  the  habit  of  following  their  advice  ;  but  his  credulity  was 
worse  than  his  scepticism.  He  dosed  himself  immoderately 
with  some  stuff  called  "  Leroy  ;  "  he  believed  that  this 
could  cure  anything.  It  usually  produced  a  powerful  agita- 
tion in  his  nervous  system,  and  generally  ended  in  upsetting 
the  intestinal  functions.  Sometimes  it  seems  to  have  de- 
prived him  of  the  power  of  speech. 


9- 


MEMOHIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


In  1S16  he  went  to  Venice,  where  he  seems  fairlv  bo 
have  collapsed  after  giving  a  few  concerts.  However,  in 
the  following  year  (1S17)  he  was  much  better,  and  went  to 
Genoa  to  see  his  mother,  taking:  Milan  en  route.  He  has 
been  called  avaricious,  suspicious  of  his  kind,  and  devoid 
of  natural  affection.  He.  no  doubt,  loved  money,  and  had 
a  general  distrust  of  his  friends  :  but  it  is  certain  that 
he  was   attached  to    his  mof  id   took    care  to  supply 

her  with   every  comfort.     She  write?  to  him.   some    years 
later  :  — 

I  am  delighted  to  find  that  after  vour  travels  to  Paris  and  London 
you  purpose  visiting  Genoa  expressly  :o  embrace  me.  Mr  dream 
-n  fulfilled,  and  that  which  God  promised  me  has  been  accom- 
plished,—  vour  name  is  great,  and  Am  with  the  heip  of  G' 
placed  you  in  a  position  of  independence.  We  are  ail  welL  In  the 
name  of  all  your  relations  I  thank  you  for  the  sums  of  money  vou 
hive  sent.  Omit  nothing  that  will  rer.cer  your  name  immortal. 
v  the  vices  of  great  cities,  remembering  that  yon  have  a  mother 
who  loves  you  affectionately.  She  will  never  cease  her  supplica- 
tions to  the  All-powerful  tor  your  preservation.  Embrace  vour 
amiable  companion  for  me.  ar.d  k:-s  little  Achille.  Love  me  "as  I 
love  you. 

Your  ever  affectionate  mother. 

Theresa  Paoaxini. 

The  "amiable  companion"  seems  to  have  been  a  canta- 
trice,  Antonia  Blanchi  di   Como,  with  whom   he  appes    •  I 
have  lived    at  one  time,   and  who   bore   him   his  or.lv  son, 

the  ••  little  Achille." 

In  the  same  year  1 S 1 7 .  he  arrived  in  Rome  in  time  for 
the  Carnival,  where  he  excited  the  greatest  enthusiasm. 
He  was  frequently  to  be  found  at  the  palace  of  Count  de 
Kaunitz.  the  Austrian  Ambassador,  where  he  met  all  the 
great  people  in  Rome,  and  among  them  M.  de  Metternich. 
who  did  his  utmost  to  persuade  him  to  visit  Vienna.  From 
this  time  Paginini  determined,  sooner  or  later,  to  visit  the 
principal  cities  in  Germany  and  France  :  but  the  state  of  his 
health  was  still  very  precarious  In,  [818—19  ^e  ?ave  oon- 
certs  at  Verona.  Plaisance,  Turin,  and  Florence,  after  which 
he  visited  Naples  for  the  first  time.  Hi-  advent  had  'ten 
long  looked  for  with  feelings  of  jealous  expectation  and  dis- 
trust. The  chief  professors  and  musicians  of  the  place,  who 
had   never  heard    him.   were    not  very  favorablv  disposed. 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE.  93 

Thev,  however,  gave  him  a  reception,  on  which  occasion  a 
piece  of  music  was  casually  placed  before  him.  full  of  the 
most  ingenious  difficulties  that  could  be  devised.  Paganini 
was  not  unaccustomed  to  this  kind  of  trap.  and.  upon  being 
requested  to  play  it  at  sight,  he  merely  glanced  at  it  and 
plaved  it  off  with*  the  greatest  ease. 

But  he  had  even  worse  foes  than  the  professors.  He 
seems  to  have  got  into  damp  apartments  close  under  St. 
Elmo,  and  his  lungs,  at  no  time  very  strong,  now  showed 
unmistakable  signs  of  consumption.  The  landlord,  fearing 
that  he  would  die  in  his  house,  actually  turned  him  and  all 
he  possessed  out  into  the  street,  where  his  friend,  Ciandelli. 
happening  to  come  by  at  the  very  nick  of  time,  administered 
a  sound  thrashing  to  the  brutal  host  with  a  stick,  and  took 
the  invalid  artist  to  a  more  comfortable  lodging.  In  1820 
he  returned  to  his  favorite  city.  Milan,  where  he  founded 
a  musical  societv.  conducted  several  concerts,  and  received 
various  crowns,  medals,  and  decorations.  In  December  of 
the  same  vear  he  returned  to  Rome,  and  in  the  following 
vear.  1821,  paid  a  second  visit  to  Naples,  giving  concerts  at 
the  Fondo  and  the  Theatre  Nuovo.  At  the  end  of  the  year 
he  crossed  over  to  Sicilv  :  but  the  people  of  Palermo  hardly 
appreciated  him.  and  in  1822  he  is  again  at  Venice  and 
Plaisance.  From  thence  he  would  have  gone  straight  to 
Germany,  in  accordance  with  the  proposals  of  Metternich  : 
but  on  his  way  to  Pavia.  in  1S23.  he  was  attacked  by  his  old 
complaint,  and  for  some  time  it  did  not  seem  likely  that  he 
would  recover.  He  was  advised  to  go  to  Genoa  for  rest, 
and  whilst  there  he  recovered  sufficiently  to  give  concerts  at 
the  Theatre  St.  Augustine,  when  the  prophet  in  his  own 
country  for  once  attracted  enthusiastic  crowds.  The  Milan- 
ese, who  had  never  expected  to  see  him  alive  again,  gave 
him  an  enthusiastic  reception  at  the  Scala.  on  the  12th  of 
June.  1S24.  He  seems  to  have  been  still  unable  to  tear 
himself  away  from  Italy  :  for  in  the  same  month  he  returned 
to  Genoa,  then  passed  to  Venice,  and  in  1825  he  was  at 
Trieste.  Then  he  proceeded,  for  the  third  time,  to  Naples, 
and  going  over  to  Palermo  for  the  second  time,  he  now  met 
with  a  most  astonishing  success.  He  remained  in  Sicily 
for  a  whole  vear.  and  seems  in  this  delicious  climate  to  have 
recovered  his  health  sufHcientlv  to  undertake  a  long  profes- 
sional tour.      He  was  then  detained  in  Italv  for  nearlv  two 


94 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


years  more,  for  in  1S26  he  visited  again  Trieste,  Venice, 
and  gave  five  concerts  at  Rome.  In  1S27  he  was  decorated 
by  Pope  Leo  XII.  with  the  Order  of  the  Golden  Spur.  He 
then  repaired  to  Florence,  where  a  disease  in  one  of  his  legs 
stopped  his  progress  for  several  months.  It  was  only  in  the 
spring  of  1S28  that  he  went  on  to  Milan,  where  he  at  length 
gave  his  farewell  concert,  before  starting  on  his  long-pro- 
jected visit  to  Vienna. 

To  dwell  upon  the  reports  of  his  first  appearance  at 
Vienna  would  be  only  to  repeat  what  has  already  been 
said.  "The  first  note  that  he  played  on  his  Guarnerius," 
writes  M.  Schilling,  in  the  Lexique  Universel  de  Musique, 
"  indeed  from  his  first  step  into  the  room,  his  reputation 
was  decided  in  Germany.  Acted  upon  as  by  an  electric 
spark,  a  brilliant  halo  of  glory  appeared  to  invest  his  whole 
person  ;  he  stood  before  us  like  a  miraculous  apparition  in 
the  domain  of  Art !  "  He  gave  concerts  in  the  capital  of 
Austria  on  the  13th,  16th,  and  iSth  of  April,  1S28.  The 
greatest  players  and  musicians  from  all  parts  flocked  to  hear 
him.  Mayseder,  Jansa,  Slawich,  Strebinger,  Bohm,  united 
in  extolling  the  new  prodigy.  In  a  very  few  days  Vienna 
seemed  to  be  turned  upside  down,  —  no  class  of  people  was 
unmoved  by  the  presence  of  this  extraordinary  man.  The 
newspapers  were  full  of  verses  and  articles  on  Paganini. 
Cravats,  coats,  gloves,  hats,  shoes,  and  even  cigar-cases  and 
snuff-boxes,- — everything  was  now  a  la  Paganini.  The 
fashionable  cooks  called  new  dishes  by  his  name  ;  any  great 
stroke  at  billiards  was  a  coup  a  la  Pagafi/iii '. 
•  He  stayed  several  months  at  Vienna,  bit  time  did  not 
iiijure:  his  popularity:  his  talent  bore  the  most  critical 
inspection  all  round,  — he  was  at  once  colossal  in  the  breadth 
and  majesty  of  his  effects,  and  microscopic  in  the  perfection 
and'subtlety  of  his  details.  At  the  acme  of  his  fame  he 
left  Vienna,  and  commenced  a  tour  through  Austria. 
Bohemia,  Saxony,  Poland,  Bavaria,  Prussia,  and  the 
Rhenish  Provinces.  Prague  was  the  only  city  which  failed 
to  appreciate  him.  There  was  a  stupid  rivalry,  of  which 
we  find  traces  in  the  days  of  Mozart,  between  Vienna  and 
Prague,  and  it  was  generally  understood  that  whoever 
was  applauded  at  Vienna  was  to  be  hissed  at  Prague,  and 
-'ice  versa.  But  on  reaching  Berlin  the  great  artist  was 
received  -with    such    an    ovation    that   he    is    said    to    have 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  95 

exclaimed,  on  his  first  appearance,  "  Here  is  my  Vienna 
public  !  " 

From  this  time  to  the  end  of  his  life  the  wildest  stories 
began  to  be  circulated  about  him,  chiefly  in  the  Italian  and 
French  newspapers  ;  but  the  Leipzig  Gazette  du  Monde 
Elega?it  cannot  be  held  quite  blameless,  for  it  inserted  one 
of  the  most  extravagant  of  these  tales.  One  man  gravely 
affirmed  that  Paganini's  miracles  of  skill  were  no  longer 
to  be  wondered  at,  because  he  had  seen  the  devil  standing 
close  behind  him  moving  his  arms  for  him.  Another  eye- 
witness wrote  that  he  had  for  some  time  observed  a  beauti- 
ful woman  at  Paganini's  concerts;  he  went  to  the 'theatre 
in  the  hope  of  again  seeing  her  on  the  occasion  of  Paga- 
nini's last  performance.  The  master  appeared,  played 
divinely  ;  the  house  was  crammed,  but  where  was  the  lady? 
Presently,  in  one  of  the  soft  pauses,  a  deep  sigh  was 
heard, — it  proceeded  from  the  beautiful  lady  ;  tears  were 
streaming  down  her  cheeks ;  a  mysterious  person  was 
seated  by  her  side,  with  whom  Paganini  exchanged  a  ghastly 
smile  ;  the  lady  and  her  cavalier  soon  rose ;  the  strange 
cavalier  grasped  her  hand  —  she  grew  deadly  pale  :  they 
proceed  out  of  the  theatre  ;  in  a  narrow  by-path  stands  a 
carriage  with  coal-black  steeds  ;  the  horses'  eyes  seem  on 
fire;  the  two  enter,  the  carriage  •  vanishes —  where,  ap- 
parently, there  is  no  road  at  all ;  the  inference  of  all  which 
is  that  Paganini  was  in  league  with  the  devil !  It  is 
strange,  but  true,  that  these  absurd  legends  gained  some 
credence  amongst  the  ignorant  populace  of  Italy  and 
France,  though  they  were  probably  laughed  at  in  Germany. 

But  other  stories  of  a  different  kind  annoyed  him  far 
more.  He  was  a  ruffian  who  had  murdered  one  mistress, 
and  decamped  with  another  man's  wife  ;  he  was  an  escaped 
convict ;  he  was  a  political  busybody.  He  was  a  spy, 
a  thief,  an  immoral  swindler ;  he  had  been  in  prison,  it  was 
said,  for  years,  and  had  thus  learned  his  skill  upon  one 
string,  all  the  others  having  got  broken.  It  is  necessary, 
even  at  this  time  of  day,  to  give  a  distinct  denial  to  this  last 
legend.  Paganini's  morals  were  not  above,  but  they  were 
not  below,  the  average  of  the  somewhat  dissolute  state  of 
society  in  which  it  was  his  misfortune  to  have  been  born 
and  bred.  He  never  committed  a  murder,  or  fought  a  duel, 
or  betrayed  a  friend,  or  left  without  provision  those  whom 


96 


MEMORIES  OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


he  had  given  just  claims  upon  him.  As  to  politics  he  knew 
nothing  and  cared  nothing  for  them  ;  and  he  never  read  the 
newspapers  except  when  they  contained  something  about 
himself.  In  Paris  they  pasted  up  a  coarse  wood-cut  of 
Paganini,  chained  in  a  dungeon,  about  the  walls  and  hoard- 
ings of  the  city.  Paganini  describes  himself  as  having 
stood  before  it  in  mute  astonishment,  until  a  crowd  gath- 
ered round  him,  and,  recognizing  the  likeness,  mobbed 
and  hustled  him  in  the  most  inconvenient  manner.  It  was 
these  reports  that  he  afterwards  bitterly  complained  of,  and 
M.  Fetis,  at  his  request,  drew  up  a  letter,  which  was  after- 
wards published  throughout  Europe,  in  which  the  aggrieved 
violinist  vindicates  his  character  from  the  current  calumnies. 
His  protestations,  however,  were  far  from  stilling  the  ru- 
mors, and,  when  he  arrived  in  London,  some  years  later, 
there  was  no  absurd  and  extravagant  tale  about  him  that 
was  not  eagerly  caught  up  and  circulated  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  land.  A  lesser  man  might  have 
courted  this  sort  of  notoriety  ;  but  Paganini,  who  could  do 
without  it,  was  intensely  annoyed  and  wounded.  We  cannot 
follow  the  great  violinist  in  detail  through  his  German  cam- 
paign, in  the  years  1S2S-29-30  ;  but  some  notion  of  his  way 
of  life  may  draw  his  personality  a  little  closer  to  the  reader 
ere  we  prepare  to  greet  him  on  our  own  shores. 

Ill-health,  at  times  acute  suffering,  which  turned  his  pale, 
bony  face  to  a  green,  livid  hue  ;  an  intensely  susceptible 
nervous  system  ;  an  outward  life  alternating  between  scenes 
of  highly  wrought  excitement,  amazing  exertion,  and  fitful 
repose,  —  these  causes  combined  to  produce  a  character 
singular  for  its  mingled  abstraction  and  plasticity.  At 
times  he  seemed  in  the  body,  at  other  times  out  of  the 
body ;  sometimes  he  appeared  to  be  only  semiconscious 
of  life  ;  at  other  times  more  intensely  conscious  than  any 
dozen  people  put  together.  Physical  causes  acted  at  times 
oddly  and  instantly  upon  his  brain  ;  at  others  they  found 
him  like  stone.  He  was  not  always  open  to  impressions, 
which  at  certain  moments  would  find  him  so  receptive  that 
he  became  the  utter  incarnation  of  them.  He  was  full  of 
contradictions,  which  he  cared  little  to  explain  either  to 
himself  or  to  others.  He  travelled  with  the  utmost  speed 
from  place  to  place  ;  in  the  hottest  weather  he  would  have 
all   the   carriage-windows   closed.      Although    latterly  his 


MEMORIES   OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE. 


97 


lungs  affected  his  voice,  which  became  thin  and  feeble, 
he  delighted  to  talk  loudly  when  rattling  over  the  roads  ; 
the  noise  of  the  wheels  seemed  to  excite  him,  and  set  his  brain 
going.  He  never  entered  an  inn  on  the  road,  but  would  sit 
in  his  carriage  until  the  horses  were  ready,  or  walk  up  and 
down  wrapped  in  his  great  cloak,  and  resent  being  spoken 
to.  Arrived  at  his  hotel  he  would  throw  all  his  doors  and 
windows  open,  and  take  what  he  called  an  air-bath  ;  but  he 
never  ceased  to  abuse  the  climate  of  Germany,  and  said  that 
Italy  was  the  only  place  fit  to  live  in.  His  luggage  was  ex- 
tremely simple,  —  a  small  napkin  might  have  contained  the 
whole  of  his  wardrobe,  —  a  coat,  a  little  linen,  and  a  hat- 
box, —  a  small  carpet-bag,  a  shabby  trunk,  containing  his 
Guarnerius  violin,  his  jewels,  a  clean  shirt,  and  his  money, 
—  that  was  all.  He  carried  papers  of  immense  value  in  a 
red  pocket-book  along  with  concert  tickets,  letters,  and 
accounts.  These  last  no  one  but  himself  could  read,  as  he 
knew  hardly  any  arithmetic,  and  calculated,  but  with  great 
accuracy,  on  some  method  of  his  own.  He  cared  little 
where  he  slept,  and  seldom  noticed  what  he  ate  or  drank, 
lie  never  complained  of  the  inns;  every  place  seemed 
much  alike  to  him  —  out  of  Italy ;  he  detested  them  all 
equally.  He  seldom  noticed  scenery,  or  paid  attention  to 
the  sights  of  foreign  towns.  To  himself  he  was  the  only 
important  fact  everywhere.  He  often  started  without  food 
in  the  early  morning,  and  remained  fasting  all  day.  At 
night  he  would  take  a  light  supper,  and  some  camomile 
tea,  and  sleep  soundly  until  morning.  At  times  he  ate 
ravenously.  He  remained  taciturn  for  days,  and  then  he 
would  have  all  his  meals  sent  up  to  his  room  ;  but  at 
some  hotels  he  would  dine  at  the  table  d'hote,  and  join 
freely  in  conversation.  He  lay  on  his  sofa  doing  nothing 
the  greater  part  of  every  day  ;  but  when  making  plans  for 
the  publication  of  his  works,  or  the  founding  of  a  musical 
institution,  which  at  one  time  occupied  much  of  his  thoughts, 
he  would  stride  up  and  down  his  room,  and  talk  in  a  rapid 
and  animated  manner.  After  dinner  he  habitually  sat  in 
his  room  in  total  darkness  until  half-past  ten,  when  he 
went  to  bed.  Sometimes  from  sixty  to  eighty  people, 
eager  to  see  him,  would  wait  upon  him  at  his  hotel  in 
the  course  of  the  day.  When  compelled  to  see  visitors 
he  was  polite ;  but  the  intrusion  of  strangers  fatigued  and 


cjS  MEMORIES   OF  A    MUSICAL    LIFE. 

annoyed  him,  and  he  often  refused  himself  to  every  one. 
lie  would  bolt  his  door,  and  not  take  the  least  notice  of 
any  knocks. 

He  would  sit  for  hours  almost  motionless  in  a  kind  of 
trance,  and  apparently  absorbed  in  deep  thought ;  but  he 
was  not  always  averse  to  society.  He  was  fond  of  convers- 
ing with  a  few  friends,  and  entered  into  whatever  games 
and  recreations  were  going  on  with  much  zest ;  but  if  any 
one  mentioned  music  he  would  relapse  into  a  sullen  silence, 
or  go  off  to  some  other  part  of  the  room.  He  disliked 
dining  out ;  but  when  he  accepted  he  usually  ate  largely  of 
everything  on  the  table,  after  which  he  was  generally 
attacked  by  his  old  bowel-complaint.  At  the  time,  how- 
ever, he  would  eat  and  drink  largely  without  any  incon- 
venience. Although  he  mixed  freely  with  the  world,  like 
Chopin,  he  was  a  solitary  man,  and  reserved  to  the  last 
degree.  Xo  one  seemed  to  be  in  his  confidence.  lie  had 
an  excellent  memory  ;  yet  certain  faces  seemed  to  pass  from 
him  absolutely.  His  fidelity  to  both  his  parents  was  not 
the  least  remarkable  point  in  his  strange  character,  and, 
although  ardentlv  attached  to  money,  he  could  be  generous 
at  the  call  of  what  he  considered  duty,  and  even  lavish 
when  charity  was  concerned  ;  indeed,  he  frequently  gave 
concerts  for  the  benefit  of  the  poor,  remembering  the  time 
when  he  had  been  a  poor  man  himself. 

Paris,  always  eager  for  novelty,  the  self-elected  critic  of 
the  civilized  world  in  all  matters  appertaining  to  art,  was 
by  this  time  imperative  in  her  demand  to  see  and  hear 
Paganini  ;  so,  early  in  the  spring  of  1S31,  he  set  out  for 
that  fashionable  capital.  Fame  had  preceded  him  with 
everv  kind  of  strange  rumor  ;  he  could  not  only  play  on 
one  string,  it  was  said,  but  his  fiddle  still  gave  forth  strange 
music  when  all  the  strings  were  removed.  The  old  calum- 
nies revived.  The  town  was  placarded  with  villanous 
wood-cuts  of  him  in  prison  ;  others  represented  him  in 
caricature,  playing  on  one  string.  In  short,  expectation 
was  wound  up  to  its  highest  pitch,  when  he  suddenly  ar- 
rived, in  bad  health,  and  immediatelv  gave  a  performance 
at  the  Opera-house,  on  March  9,  1S31.  The  calm  and 
judicious  veteran  of  the  Royal  Conservatory  of  Music,  in 
Belgium,  M.  Fetis,  who  knew  him  well,  and  heard  him 
often,  and  to  whose  work  I  am  so    much  indebted  for  the 


MEMORIES  OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE.  qo. 

present  sketch,  can  rind  no  other  words  to  express  the  sensa- 
tion which  he  created  on  his  first  appearance  at  Paris  than 
"  universal  frenzy."  The  whole  city  flocked  to  hear  him  ; 
the  professors  and  virtuosi  crowded  round  him  on  the  plat- 
form, as  near  as  they  dared  approach,  in  order  to  watch  him 
play,  after  which  they  were  no  wiser  than  before.  At  the 
end  of  each  piece  the  whole  audience,  it  is  said,  rose  en 
masse  to  recall  him  ;  the  tongue  of  envy  forgot  to  wag,  and 
rivalry  was  put  out  of  court.  It  was  hoped  he  might  have 
thrown  some  light  upon  certain  prodigious  violin  studies 
which  he  had  published,  and  which  had  long  been  known 
at  Paris.  No  one  could  play  them,  or  even  conjecture  how 
some  of  them  were  to  be  played  ;  nor  did  Paganini  reveal 
the  secret,  which  lay,  no  doubt,  partly  in  a  peculiar  way  of 
tuning  the  instrument,  as  well  as  in  a  length  and  agility  of 
ringer  which  he  alone  possessed. 

About  the  middle  of  May  he  left  Paris  for  London,  and 
the  Times  newspaper,  which,  at  that  time,  hardly  ever  no- 
ticed concerts,  devoted  half  a  column  in  a  vain  attempt  to 
give  some  idea  of  his  first  performance  at  the  King's  Theatre. 
Paganini,  to  save  himself  trouble,  had  agreed,  for  an  enor- 
mous sum  of  money,  to  let  himself  to  a  speculator  during 
his  stay  in  England,  who  made  all  arrangements  for  him  and 
took  the  proceeds.  This  plan  has  since  been  adopted  by 
several  illustrious  artists,  M.  Joachin  amongst  them  ;  and, 
although  it  has  been  stigmatized  as  wanting  in  dignity,  it  is 
probably,  on  the  whole,  the  most  satisfactoiy  to  the  artist, 
though  not  always  to  the  public.  An  attempt  was  made  to 
double  the  prices  at  the  Opera-house,  which  raised  great 
indignation  ;  the  prices  ultimately  charged  were  the  usual 
opera  charges,  —  no  more  and  no  less,  —  and  this  was  doubt- 
less thought  exorbitant  for  a  concert,  although  the  solo  per- 
former was  supported  by  an  orchestra  and  some  of  the  best 
opera-singers,  the  famous  Lablache  amongst  them.  The 
crowd  at  the  doors  on  the  first  night  was  excessive,  and  the 
pit  was  full  to  overflowing;  but  the  boxes  were  thin.  Pa- 
ganini was  suffering  at  that  time  from  the  inroads  of  his  old 
complaint,  aggravated  by  the  rapid  encroachments  of  his 
last  fatal  malady,  consumption.  He  appeared  contrary  to 
the  advice  of  his  physicians,  and  was  received  with  the  usual 
tumult  of  applause.  From  a  heap  of  contemporary  criticism, 
struggling  vainly  with   the  difficulty  of  the   subject,  we  ex-- 


IOO  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

tract  a  few  passages  from  the  pen  of  an  eye-witness,  which 
strike  us  as  unusually  graphic. 

Mr.  Gardner,  of  Leicester,  writes  :  "  At  the  hazard  of  my 
ribs  I  placed  myself  at  the  Opera  two  hours  and  a  half 
before  the  concert  began.  .  .  .  The  concert  opened 
with  Beethoven's  second  symphony,  admirably  played  by 
the  Philharmonic  band,  after  which  Lablache  sang  '  Largo 
al  Factotum,'  with  much  applause,  and  was  encored.  A 
breathless  silence,  and  every  eye  was  watching  the  action 
of  this  extraordinary  violinist;  and  as  he  glided  from  the 
side  scenes  to  the  front  of  the  stage  an  involuntary  cheer- 
ing burst  from  every  part  of  the  house,  many  rising  from 
their  seats  to  view  the  spectre  during  the  thunder  of  this 
unprecedented  cheering;  his  gaunt  and  extraordinary 
appearance  being  more  like  that  of  a  devotee  about  to 
sutler  martyrdom  than  one  to  delight  you  with  his  art. 
With  the  tip  of  his  bow  he  sent  off  the  orchestra  in  a  grand 
military  movement  with  a  force  and  vivacity  as  surprising 
as  it  was  new.  At  the  termination  of  this  introduction  he 
commenced  with  a  soft,  streaming  note  of  celestial  quality, 
and  with  three  or  four  whips  of  his  bow  elicited  points  of 
sound  that  mounted  to  the  third  heaven  and  as  bright  as  the 
stars.  .  .  .  He  has  long  legs  and  arms,  and  his  hands 
in  his  playing  often  assume  the  attitude  of  prayer,  with  the 
fingers  pointed  upwards.  It  was  curious  to  watch  the  faces 
of  Lindley,  Dragonetti,  and  the  other  great  players,  who 
took  up  places  on  the  platform  to  command  a  good  view  of 
him  during  his  performance  ;  they  all  seem  to  have  agreed 
that  the  like  had  never  been  heard  before,  and  that,  in  addi- 
tion to  his  mai'vellous  eccentricities  and  novel  effects,  he  had 
transcended  the  highest  level  of  legitimate  art  that  had  ever 
been  reached." 

It  has  often  been  asked  in  what  respects  Paganini's  play- 
ing differed  from  that  of  other  great  violinists  ;  in  what 
has  he  enriched  the  art ;  what  has  he  discovered  or  in- 
vented? These  questions  have  been  to  some  extent  an- 
swered by  the  painstaking  professor  of  music,  Guhr,  who 
had  many  opportunities  of  watching  him  closely. 

He  was  peculiar,  first,  in  his  manner  of  tuning.  Some- 
times the  first  three  strings  were  tuned  half  a  note  higher, 
the  G  string  being  a  third  lower.  Sometimes  he  tuned  his 
G  to  B  ;  with  a  single  turn  of  his  peg  he  would  change  the 


MEMORIES  OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


pitch  of  his  G  string,  and  never  fail  in  his  intonation.  These 
artifices  explain,  no  doubt,  many  of  his  extraordinary  inter- 
vals. 

Secondly,  in  his  management  of  the  bow  he  has  had  many 
imitators,  though  none  have  approached  him  in  the  romantic 
variety  and  "  fiend-like  power  with  which  he  ruled  over  the 
strings."  His  ordinary  staccato,  played  with  a  very  tight 
bow,  was  prodigiously  loud  and  firm,  like  the  strokes  of  a 
hammer ;  whilst  his  method  of  dashing  the  bow  on  the 
strings,  and  letting  it  leap  through  an  infinity  of  tiny  staccato 
notes  with  unerring  precision,  was  wholly  his  own  inven- 
tion. 

Thirdly,  his  tremolo  use  of  the  left  hand  exceeded  any- 
thing which  had  been  attempted  up  to  that  time.  This 
effect  has  been,  like  every  other  one  of  his  inimitable  effects, 
driven  to  death  by  subsequent  violinists. 

Fourth,  his  use  of  harmonics,  now  universally  known  to 
violinists,  was  then  absolutely  new  ;  formerly  only  the  open 
harmonics  had  been  used,  and  that  very  charily ;  but  Paga- 
nini  astonished  the  world  by  stopping  the  string  with  the 
first  finger,  and  extracting  the  harmonic  simultaneously 
with  the  fourth.  By  sliding  up  the  first  finger  together 
with  the  fourth,  he  played  entire  melodies  in  harmonics, 
and  got,  on  an  average,  about  three  octaves  out  of  each 
string ;  his  use  of  double  harmonics  in  rapid  passages,  and 
such  trifles  as  four  simultaneous  A  flats,  are  still  problems 
which  few,  if  any  hands  but  his,  have  been  able  to  solve. 

Lastly,  his  habit  of  plucking  the  strings,  sometimes  with 
the  right,  sometimes  with  the  left  hand,  and  producing 
those  rapid  pizzicato  runs,  on  an  accompaniment  of  a  harp 
or  guitar,  was  absolutely  new  ;  beyond  these  things  it  was 
found  impossible  much  farther  to  analyze  his  playing.  His 
secret,  if  he  had  any,  died  with  him  ;  his  music  does  not 
reveal  it.  Although  he  wrote  quartets,  solos,  duets,  and 
sonatas,  fragments  of  about  twenty-four  of  which  are  in 
existence,  only  nine  were  found  complete ;  of  these  the 
Rondo  known  as  "  Clochette,"  and  often  played  by  M. 
Sivori,  and  "  Le  Streghe,"  are  perhaps  the  best  known. 
The  celebrated  variations  on  the  "  Carnival  de  Venise"  do 
not  appear  to  have  been  published  as  he  played  them, 
though  both  Ernst  and  Sivori  claim  to  play  the  Paganini 
Carnival.     M.  Fetis  considers  his  finest  compositions  have 


102  MEMORIES  OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE. 

not  been  preserved  ;  amongst  those  he  reckons  a  magnifi- 
cent concerto  played  at  Paris  in  1S13,  and  a  grand  military 
sonata  for  the  fourth  string  only. 

The  rest  of  Paganini's  story  is  soon  told.  Broken  in 
health,  after  an  absence  of  six  years  he  returned  to  Italy, 
where  he  was  now  nearly  worshipped  by  his  countrymen. 
He  had  grown  immensely  rich,  and  bought  various  proper- 
ties in  Tuscany.  He  played  at  concerts  from  time  to  time, 
and  was  always  most  generous  in  giving  his  talents  for  the 
benefit  of  the  poor. 

Mr.  Dubourg,  in  his  valuable  work  on  the  violin,  asserts 
that  he  went  to  America  ;  but  of  this  I  can  find  no  trace  in 
the  biography  of  M.  Fetis,  nor  in  any  other  documents  which 
I  have  as  yet  come  across.  In  1S35  Paganini  lived  much 
between  Milan  and  Genoa.  The  Duchess  of  Parma  had 
conferred  the  order  of  St.  George  on  him  in  1S34. 

In  1836  he  got  into  bad  hands.  He  lent  his  great  name 
to  the  establishment  of  a  Casino  in  Paris,  which  failed. 
He  was  obliged  to  go  to  Paris,  and  the  journey,  no  doubt, 
hastened  his  end.  His  consumption  grew  worse  ;  he  could 
not  bear  the  cold ;  he  was  annoyed  by  the  unscrupulous 
speculators,  who  tried  to  involve  him  in  their  own  ruin,  and 
then  refused  to  bear  the  burden  with  him.  They  even  suc- 
ceeded in  mulcting  him  in  the  sum  of  50,000  francs,  and  he 
was  actually  detained  by  legal  proceedings  until  he  had 
paid  the  whole  sum. 

But  his  days  of  speculation  and  glory  were  alike  num- 
bered. In  1S39  he  was  a  dying  man.  He  struggled  with 
indomitable  energy  against  his  deadly  foe.  He  now  often 
took  up  the  guitar,  which,  in  the  spring-time  of  his  life, 
had  been  so  intimately  associated  with  his  first  romantic 
attachment.  He  was  a  great  admirer  of  Beethoven,  and 
not  long  before  his  death  he  played  one  of  that  master's 
quartets,  his  favorite  one,  with  astonishing  energy.  In 
extreme  weakness,  he  labored  out  to  hear  a  requiem  of 
Cherubini  for  male  voices,  and  soon  afterwards,  with  all  his 
last  energies,  he  insisted  upon  being  conveyed  to  one  of  the 
churches  in  Marseilles,  where  he  took  part  in  a  solemn 
mass  of  Beethoven.  His  voice  was  now  nearly  extinct,  and 
his  sleep,  that  greatest  of  consolations,  was  broken  up  by 
dreadful  fits  of  coughing,  his  features  began  to  sink,  and 
he    appeared   to   be  little  more    than  a  living  skeleton,  so 


MEMORIES  OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


103 


excessive  and  fearful  was  his  emaciation.  Still  he  did  not 
believe  in  the  approach  of  death.  Day  by  day  he  grew 
more  restless,  and  talked  of  passing  the  winter  at  Nice  ; 
he  did  live  on  till  the  spring. 

On  the  night  of  May  27,  1840,  after  a  protracted 
paroxysm,  he  suddenly  became  strangely  tranquil.  He 
sank  into  a  quiet  sleep,  and  woke  refreshed  and  calm.  The 
air  was  soft  and  warm.  He  desired  them  to  open  the  win- 
dows wide,  draw  the  curtains  of  his  bed,  and  allow  the 
moon,  just  rising  in  the  unclouded  glory  of  an  Italian  sky, 
to  Hood  his  apartment.  He  sat  gazing  intently  upon  it  for 
some  minutes,  and  then  again  sank  drowsily  into  a  fitful 
sleep.  Rousing  himself  once  more,  his  fine  ear  caught  the 
sound  of  the  rustling  leaves  as  they  were  gently  stirred  by 
some  breath  of  air  outside.  In  his  dying  moments  this  sound 
of  the  night  wind  in  the  trees  seemed  to  affect  him  strangely, 
and  the  summer  nights  on  the  banks  of  the  Arno  long  ago 
may  have  flashed  back  upon  his  mind,  and  called  up  fading 
memories.  But  now  the  Arno  was  exchanged  for  the  wide 
Mediterranean  Sea,  all  ablaze  with  light.  Mozart,  in  his 
last  moments,  pointed  to  the  score  of  the  Requiem,  which 
lay  before  him  on  his  bed,  and  his  lips  were  moving,  to  in- 
dicate the  effect  of  kettle-drums  in  a  particular  place,  as  he 
sank  back  in  a  swoon  ;  and  it  is  recorded  of  Paganini  that 
on  that  fair  moonlight  night  in  May,  as  the  last  dimness 
came  over  his  eyes,  he  stretched  out  his  hand  to  grasp  his 
faithful  friend  and  companion,  his  Guarnerius  violin,  and 
as  he  struck  its  chords  once  more,  and  found  that  it  ceased 
to  speak  with  its  old  magic  power,  he  himself  sank  back 
and  expired,  like  one  broken-hearted  to  find  that  a  little 
feeble,  confused  noise  was  all  that  was  now  left  of  those 
strains  that  he  had  created  and  the  world  had  worshipped. 

He  left  £80,000  to  his  son,  Baron  Achille  Paganini,  and 
about  £45  a  year  to  Antonia  Bianchi,  with  whom  he  had 
long  since  quarrelled.  He  had  previously  provided  for 
his  mother.  His  violin  he  left  to  his  native  city,  Genoa, 
with  directions  that  no  other  artist  should  ever  play  upon  it. 
We  have  no  heart  to  dwell  upon  the  wretched  strife  over 
his  dead  body.  Paganini,  who  had  no  great  opinion  of  the 
Catholic  religion  or  the  Catholic  priests,  died  without  con- 
fession and  the  last  sacraments.  He  was,  accordinglv, 
refused   burial    in   consecrated   ground   by   the   Bishop    of 


104  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

Parma.  For  a  long  time  his  corpse  remained  at  a  room  in 
the  hospital  at  Nice.  The  body  then  lay  for  four  years  at 
Villa  Franca,  when,  owing,  it  was  affirmed,  to  the  ghostly 
violin  sounds  that  were  heard  about  the  coffin,  his  son,  by 
paying  large  sums  of  money,  got  permission  to  bury  his 
father  with  funeral  rites  in  the  village  church,  near  what  had 
been  his'  favorite  residence,  the  Villa  Gajona.  This  last 
tribute  was  tardily  paid  to  the  ashes  of  the  immortal  musi- 
cian in  May  of  1845. 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


I05 


CHAPTER   VII. 

RICHARD    WAGNER. 

WAGNER  is  the  most  powerful  personality  that  has 
appeared  in  the  world  of  music  since  Beethoven. 
But  indeed  he  seems  to  me,  in  his  wide  range  as 
poet,  dramatist,  musician,  and  philosopher,  almost  alone  in 
the  history  of  Art. 

Beethoven  was  a  musician  only.  His  glory  is  to  have 
carried  the  art  of  music  to  its  extreme  limits  of  development : 
no  one  has  yet  gone  beyond  him. 

Wagner  said,  "  I  have  invented  nothing."  You  cannot 
invent  metre  after  the  Greeks,  or  the  modern  drama  after 
Shakespeare,  or  coloring  and  perspective  after  the  Italians, 
—  there  is  a  point  at  which  an  art  ceases  to  grow  and  stands 
full-blown  like  a  flower. 

Most  people  admit  that  in  music,  as  in  other  arts,  that 
point  has  been  reached.  What,  then,  remained?  T'/iis, 
according  to  Richard  Wagner :  to  concentrate  into  one 
dazzling  focus  all  the  arts,  and,  having  sounded  and  de- 
veloped the  expressional  depth,  and  determined  the  peculiar 
function  of  each,  to  combine  them  at  length  into  one  perfect 
and  indivisible  whole. 

Words  seem  childishly  inadequate  to  render  all  at  once 
such  a  conception  as  this.  Slowly  we  may  master  some  of 
its  details  and  allow  them  to  orb  into  a  perfect  whole.  If 
you  stand  at  the  foot  of  one  of  the  Alps  you  can  see  but  a 
little  portion  of  it,  —  a  hamlet,  a  sloping  patch  of  vineyard, 
and  a  pine  copse  beyond  ;  but  as  you  ascend  the  winding 
path  the  prospect  opens  to  right  and  left ;  cascades  leap  by 
to  lose  themselves  in  the  torrent  below  ;  you  plunge  into 
the  gloom  of  a  forest,  and  emerge  on  to  the  higher  meadows 
and  pleasant  scenes  of  pastoral  life ;  yonder  the  soil  grows 
rocky,  and  tumbled  boulders  lie  around  you  ;  the  cloud 
lifts,  and  a  vista  of  mountains  and  vallevs  is  suddenly  opened 
up,  and,  pressing  forward,  you  leave  far  below  the  murmurs 


ic6  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

of  one  world,  and  raise  your  enraptured  eyes  to  the  black 
eagle,  as  he  wheels  aloft  in  the  golden  air  beyond  the  stain- 
less and  eternal  snows. 

So,  when  we  are  brought  face  to  face  with  such  a  varied, 
complex,  and  immense  intelligence  as  that  of  Richard 
Wagner,  we  are  apt  to  dwell  on  a  part,  —  a  peculiarity  of 
the  music  ;  a  turn  of  the  drama  ;  a  melody,  a  situation,  an 
eccentricity.  But  the  secret  lies,  after  all,  in  the  unity  of 
effect.  Close  your  eyes  after  a  day  in  the  Alps,  and,  as  the 
visions  pass  before  you,  all  will  grow  clear  to  your  inner 
consciousness,  and  the  varied  scenes  you  have  realized  only 
in  succession  will  at  last  arrange  themselves  into  one  great 
and  majestic  whole. 

Wagner  was  always  prodigious  in  his  ability.  Like  those 
very  fast  trotters  that  flash  along  the  highways  of  England 
and  America,  he  has  been  in  the  habit  of  passing  every  one 
on  the  road,  and  passing  them  easily.  But  the  conscious- 
ness of  power  bred  in  him  a  singular  wilfulness.  At  school 
he  could  learn  anything  ;  but  he  would  learn  only  as  he  chose 
and  what  he  chose.  When  his  time  came  he  mastered, 
with  incredible  rapidity  and  accuracy,  Greek,  Latin,  my- 
thology, and  ancient  history.  As  for  his  music-master  he 
soon  sent  him  to  the  right-about,  telling  him  he  would  learn 
music  his  own  way.  Indeed,  the  variety  of  influences,  and 
the  rapidity  with  which  he  absorbed  them,  one  after  the 
other,  quite  unfitted  him  for  going  into  harness  early  in  any 
one  direction. 

At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  had  dipped  into  most  litera- 
tures, ancient  and  modern ;  glanced  at  science,  learned 
English  in  order  to  read  Shakespeare,  weighed  several 
schools  of  philosophy,  studied  and  dismissed  the  contending 
theologies,  absorbed  Schiller  and  worshipped  Goethe  (then 
eighty-four  years  old),  turned  away  from  the  conventional 
stage  of  Kotzebue  and  Iffland,  tasted  politics,  and  been 
deeply  stirred  by  the  music  of  Beethoven. 

There  was  doubtless  a  great  indistinctness  about  his  aims 
at  this  time.  To  live,  to  grow,  to  feel,  to  be  filled  with  new 
emotions,  and  to  sound  his  enormous  capacities  for  receiv- 
ing impressions  and  acquiring  facts,  —  this  had  hitherto  been 
enough  ;  but  the  vexed  question  was  inevitable  :  to  what 
end  ? 

The  artistic  temperament  could  give  but  one  answer  to 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


that,  —  "Expression!"  Creation  itself,  man,  the  world, 
the  universe,  is  nothing  but  that.  There  is  ever  this  im- 
perious, divine  necessity  for  outward  expression.  This  is 
the  lesson  of  the  ages  and  of  the  universe,  of  which  we  see 
but  a  little  speck  realized  upon  our  tiny  and  overcrowded 
planet. 

Wagner  was  willing  to  be  led  ;  but  he  could  not  help 
feeling  that  an  artist  now  is  the  heir  of  all  the  ages  ;  that  now 
for  the  first  time  he  can  stand  and  gauge  the  creation  of  the 
past  in  poetry,  painting,  drama,  and  music,  and  ask  him- 
self, how  far,  through  these,  has  the  inner  world  of  the 
mind  found  utterance.  Wagner  had  the  unconscious,  but 
inflexible  hardihood  to  take  up  each  art  in  turn,  weigh  it, 
and  find  it  wanting.  Each  fell  short  of  the  whole  reality  in 
some  respect. 

Those  who  have  traced  Wagner's  career  from  boyhood 
know  how  patiently  he  was  questioned  every  art,  how  pas- 
sionatelv  he  has  surrendered  himself  to  it  for  a  time  ;  how 
willing  he  would  have  been  to  rest ;  how  inexorably  experi- 
ence and  feeling  have  urged  him  on  until,  like  the  hardy 
navigators  of  old,  he  broke  at  last  into  a  new  and  undiscov- 
ered ocean.  At  the  age  of  eleven  he  had  read  Shake- 
speare. Surely  dramatic  expression  of  thought  and  feeling 
could  go  no  farther.  But  he  would  test  it  as  a  form  of  art  by 
experiment,  and  see  how  it  worked.  He  immediately  con- 
structed a  drama,  horrible  and  thorough, — a  cross  between 
Hamlet  and  King  Lear.  Forty-two  characters  suffered 
death  in  the  first  four  acts,  so  that  in  the  fifth,  in  order  to 
people  his  stage  at  all,  most  of  them  had  to  reappear  as 
ghosts. 

Excited,  but  oppressed,  by  the  complex  inner  life  of  the 
Shakespearian  drama,  Wagner  still  felt  the  need  of  wedding 
the  personal  life  to  some  larger  ideal  types,  and  intensifying 
the  emotional  element  by  the  introduction  of  musical  sound. 
Then  the  cramped  wooden  stage  of  the  Globe  Theatre  van- 
ished, and  in  its  place  rose  the  marble  amphitheatre,  open 
to  the  sky,  embedded  in  the  southern  slope  of  the  Athenian 
Acropolis.  In  the  classical  drama  nothing  was  individual ; 
the  whole  life  of  Greece  was  there,  but  all  was  summed 
up  in  large  and  simple  types.  The  actors  speak  through 
fixed  masks.  All  fine  inflection  is  lost;  all  change  of  facial 
expression  sacrificed  to  massive  groupings  and  stately  poses, 


ioS  MEMORIES    OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 

regulated  by  the  shrill  pipe  and  the  meagre  harp.  But  still 
there  is  in  the  dramas  of  ,/Eschylus,  Euripides,  and  Sophocles 
a  breadth  of  expression  which  enables  the  soul  to  shake  it- 
self free  from  its  accidental  surroundings  and  enter  into  gen- 
eral sympathy  with  the  wider  life  of  humanity.  It  is  this 
escape  into  the  ideal  which  the  modern  self-conscious  spirit 
most  needs;  this  merging  of  discordant  self  in  the  universal 
harmony  which  drew  Wagner  towards  the  theatre  of  the 
Greeks. 

For  what  the  Greek  was  and  for  what  he  saw,  his  theatre 
found  an  almost  perfect  art-form.  The  dance  or  science  of 
pantomimic  motion  was  part  of  his  daily  education.  His 
body  was  trained  in  the  Palaestra,  or  gymnasium,  and  his 
life  was  one  of  constant  drill  to  enable  him  to  take  part  in 
the  games  and  national  festivals.  The  elastic  tongue  of 
Homer  had  been  enriched  and  fired  by  a  hundred  poets  be- 
fore the  full  development  of  the  Greek  drama,  and  hymns 
and  songs,  set  to  rhythmic  and  choral  melodies  of  every 
character  and  variety,  supplied  him  with  ready  emotional 
utterance  upon  all  occasions.  Add  to  this  the  profound  en- 
thusiasm which  still  accompanied  the  ancient  rites,  the  Del- 
phic oracles,  and  the  Eleusinian  mysteries,  and  we  have  all 
materials  which  were  woven  into  one  harmonious  whole  by 
yEschylus,  —  poet,  warrior,  stage  manager,  and  religious 
devotee. 

The  soul  of  the  Greek  drama,  freed  from  accidental  asso- 
ciations, must  now  be  melted  down  in  the  new  crucible. 

Wagner  found  there  an  intense  earnestness  of  purpose  ; 
the  devout  portrayal  of  a  few  fundamental  types  ;  the  large, 
clear  outline,  like  the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon  ;  a  simple 
plot  and  well-developed  phases  of  feeling  as  pronounced 
and  trenchant  as  the  rhythmic  motions  of  the  drcmatis 
ftersoncc ;  and  lastly  he  found  — what  he  found  not  in 
Shakespeare  —  the  Greek  chorus.  This  gave  its  binding 
intensity  to  the  whole  drama  ;  this  provided  the  universal 
element  in  which  the  actors  lived  and  moved  and  had  their 
being.  The  chorus  ever  in  motion,  —  a  band  of  youths  or 
maidens,  priests  or  supernatural  beings,  fluid  and  expres- 
sive, like  the  emotions  of  the  vast  and  earnest  assemblv.  — 
the  chorus  bore  aloft  a  wail  over  the  agonies  of  Philotetes, 
a  plaint  for  Iphigenia,  a  questioning  of  the  gods  for  Cas- 
sandra ;   it  enveloped  the  stage  with    floods    of  passionate 


MEMORIES  OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


109 


declamation ;  it  rushed,  it  pointed,  it  swayed,  it  sighed  and 
whispered  in  broken,  pathetic  accents  ;  it  was  like  the  sob- 
bing of  the  sea  on  a  rocky  strand,  the  sound  of  the  waves 
in  Ionian  caves,  the  wild  sweep  of  the  tempest  answering 
back  man's  passionate  plaint,  and  fitting  the  simple  feelings 
of  the  great  types  on  the  stage  with  an  almost  elemental  in- 
tensity of  expression.  The  mysterious  variety  of  Greek  me- 
tres, the  various  spasmodic  rhythms,  can  only  be  understood 
when  the  vision  of  the  Greek  chorus  rises  before  us  in  its 
eager  bursts  of  appropriate,  but  fitful,  activity.  That  chang- 
ing chant,  that  harsh,  ringing  progression  of  notes  on  the 
Greek  scales,  of  which  Gregorians  are  still  the  Christian  rel- 
ics—  we  should  not  call  it  music  ;  it  was  not  melody,  much 
less  harmony  ;  but  it  was  sound  inflections,  marvellously  used 
to  drill  declamation,  posture,  and  pantomime.  The  soul  of 
it  has  transmigrated  in  these  latter  days,  — it  has  become 
the  Wagnerian  Orchestra. 

Turn  back  now,  for  a  moment,  to  the  Shakesperian 
drama.  Chorus,  musical  sound,  band,  song,  all  the  voices  of 
universal  nature  environing  man  —  appalling,  consoling, 
inspiring  him  —  have  vanished.  A  new  inner-world, 
unknown  to  the  Greeks,  has  taken  their  place,  and  man  is 
absorbed  with  himself.  Yet  without  that  universal  voice' 
which  he  can  make  his  own,  how  he  shrinks,  dwarfed  by 
his  narrow  individuality ;  no  longer  a  part  of  the  great 
whole  and  soul  of  things ;  nature  no  longer  his  mother,  the 
winds  no  more  his  friends,  the  sea  no  more  his  comforter ! 
The  ideal  atmosphere  of  the  Greek  chorus  is  missed  ;  the 
power  of  music,  however  rudimentary,  is  absent ;  Shake- 
speare seems  to  have  felt  it ;  it  passes  over  his  sublime  crea- 
tions as  an  invocation  to  Music  in  Twelfth  Night,  or  in 
Ophelia's  plaintive  song.  And  this  is  the  point  of  contact 
between  the  old  drama  of  yEschylus  and  the  new  drama  of 
Shakespeare  ;  the  two  stand  forever  for  the  opposite  poles 
of  dramatic  art,  —  the  universal  type,  the  individual  life, — 
and  both  are  necessai'y.  The  individual  is  naturally  evolved 
from  the  universal ;  but,  once  evolved  and  developed,  it 
must  be  restored  to  the  universal  and  be  glorified  by  it. 

At  this  crisis,  in  his  quest  after  a  perfect  art-form,  Wag- 
ner found  himself  confronted  with  Beethoven's  music.  He 
did  not  believe  that  drama  could  be  carried  farther  than 
yEschylus,  Sophocles,  and  Shakespeare,  or  music  any  far- 


HO  MEMORIES  OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

ther  than  Beethoven ;  but  he  did  conceive  the  project  of 
leading  the  whole  stream  of  the  Beethovenian  music  into  the 
channels  of  the  Shakespearian  drama.  The  Greek  chorus 
might  have  been  inadequate  to  the  simple  types  of  Greek 
tragedy ;  but  modern  life,  with  its  self-conscious  spirituality, 
its  questions,  its  doubts,  its  hopes,  and  its  immense  aspira- 
tions, —  this  seemed  to  require  quite  a  new  element  of 
expression.  The  voice  of  this  inner  life  had  been  preparing 
for  four  hundred  years  ;  when  it  was  ready  it  turned  out  to 
be  no  inflexible  mask,  through  which  a  human  voice  might 
speak,  nor  even  a  mobile  chorus,  but  a  splendid  and  com- 
plex organ  of  expression,  fitted  so  closely  about  the  soul  of 
man  as  to  become  the  very  yEolian  harp  upon  which  the 
breath  of  his  life  could  freely  play. 

In  the  great  world-laboratory  of  Art,  Wagner  found  al- 
ready all  that  he  required.  There  was,  as  he  remarked, 
nothing  left  for  him  to  invent ;  the  arts  of  poetry,  music, 
painting,  and  pantomime  had  been  explored  separately 
and  perfected  ;  nay,  one  step  more  had  been  made,  — 
the  arts  had  actually  been  combined  at  different  times 
in  different  ways.  Music  with  pantomime  and  poems  by 
the  Greeks  ;  music  with  pantomime,  drama,  painting,  and 
every  conceivable  effect  of  stage  scenery  and  costume,  as 
in  modern  opera  ;  music  and  words,  as  in  oratorio  or  the 
cantata. 

But  in  Greece  music  was  wholly  undeveloped  as  an  art: 
acting  had  never  sounded  the  depths  of  individual  life  and 
expression.  The  Shakespearian  drama  left  out  music.  The 
cantata  and  oratorio  omitted  pantomime  and  painting ; 
whilst  modern  opera  presented  a  meretricious  and  maimed 
combination  of  the  arts,  resulting  from  a  radically  defective 
form. 

With  a  surprising  vigor  of  intellect  Wagner  has  analyzed 
the  situation,  and  explained  exactly  why  he  felt  dissatisfied 
with  the  best  operatic  efforts  of  the  past,  and  why  he  seeks 
to  supersede  opera  with  the  "  musical  drama." 

I  think  his  critical  results  may  be  briefly  summed  up 
thus :  In  the  musical  drama,  poetry,  music,  scenery,  and 
acting  are  to  be  so  blended  as  that  each  shall  have  its  own 
appropriate  share,  and  no  more,  as  a  medium  of  expres- 
sion. The  acting  must  not  be  cramped  by  the  music,  as  in 
common  opera,  where  a  man  has  to  stand  on  one  toe  till  he 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL    LIFE. 


has  done  his  roulade,  or  pauses  in  the  dead  of  night  to  shout 
oui  a  song  about  "Hush!  we  shall  be  discovered"  when 
there  is  not  a  moment  to  spare.  The  music  must  not  be 
spoiled  for  the  acting,  as  in  ballet  and  pantomime,  where  act- 
ing is  overstrained  to  express  what  the  sister  arts  of  poetry 
and  music  are  better  fitted  to  convey.  And  poetry,  which, 
after  all,  supplies  the  definite  basis  and  answers  the  inevitable 
4 'Why?"  must  not  be  sacrificed  as  in  our  opera  libretti, 
to  the  demands  of  singers  for  aria  and  scena,  whilst  the 
scenery  must  only  attempt  effects  and  situations  which  can 
be  made  to  look  real.  The  object  of  the  grand  musical 
drama  is,  in  fact,  to  present  a  true  picture  of  human  feeling 
with  the  utmost  fulness  and  intensity,  freed  from  every  con- 
ventional expression  by  the  happy  union  of  all  the  arts, 
giving  to  each  only  what  it  is  able  to  deal  with  ;  but  thus 
dealing  with  everything,  leaving  nothing  to  the  imagina- 
tion. The  Wagnerian  drama  completely  exhausts  the 
situation. 

Filled  with  this  magnificent  conception  Wagner  looked 
out  upon  the  world  of  modern  opera  —  and  what  did  he 
see  ?  First,  he  noticed  that  the  opera  had  made  a  false 
start.  It  sprang,  not  from  the  earnest  feeling  of  the  miracle 
plays,  but  from  the  indolent  desire  of  the  luxurious  Italian 
nobles  to  listen  to  the  delicious  popular  melodies  in  a  refined 
form.  The  spontaneous  street  action  (which  may  to  this 
day  be  admired  in  Naples  or  Florence)  was  exchanged  for 
a  sort  of  drawing-room  stage,  and  poets  were  hired  to  reset 
the  Italian  melodies,  as  Moore  reset  the  Irish  melodies, 
for  ears  polite.  This  new  aristocratic  mongrel  art  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  real  drama.  Metastasio  himself 
was  only  an  Italian  Mr.  Chorley,  —  the  very  humble  ser- 
vant of  everybody's  tunes  ;  but  these  tunes  had  to  be  strung 
together,  so  the  recitative,  used  for  centuries  in  church,  was 
borrowed  ;  then  the  product  was  naturally  a  little  dull,  so 
the  whole  had  to  be  whipped  up  with  a  dance ;  hence  the 
ballet,  and  there  you  have  the  three  fixed  points  of  the 
opera  —  aria,  recitative,  and  ballet  —  which  to  this  day 
determine  the  form  of  modern  opera.  Thus  opera,  whilst 
it  had  no  connection  with  the  real  drama,  did  not  even 
spring  from  the  best  musical  elements.  "  From  the  pros- 
perity of  opera  in  Italy,"  says  Wagner,  "  the  art-student 
will   date  the  decline  of  music  in  that  country.    .    .    .  No 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


one  who  has  any  conception  of  the  grandeur  and  ineffable 
depth  of  the  earlier  Italian  church  music  —  Palestrina's 
'  Stabat  Mater,'  for  instance  —  will  ever  dream  of  main- 
taining that  Italian  opera  can  be  looked  upon  as  the  legiti- 
mate daughter  of  that  wondrous  mother." 

As  ear-tickling,  and  not  truth  of  expression,  was  the 
chief  thing,  and  as  there  was  nothing  much  to  be  expressed, 
the  arias  got  wider  and  wider  of  the  words,  and  at  last  the 
words  became  mere  pegs,  and  the  music  totally  irrelevant  — 
as  who  should  dance  a  jig  over  a  grave. 

Gluck's  reform  consisted  in  making  the  operatic  tunes 
once  more  true  to  the  words ;  but  the  improvment  touched 
the  sentiment  only,  without  reaching  the  defective  form. 
In  France  the  form  was  slightly  redeemed  by  the  superior 
libretti  and  more  elaborate  pantomime  ;  whilst  in  Germany 
opera  arrived  as  a  finished  foreign  production,  and  Mozart 
and  others  had  to  go  to  Italy  to  learn  it.  "  In  expressing 
my  highest  admiration  of  the  exquisite  beauty  of  our  great 
masters,"  says  Wagner,  "  I  did  not  detract  from  their  fame 
in  showing  that  the  cause  of  their  weaknesses  lay  in  the 
faultiness  of  the  genre."  And  the  defect  of  genre  lav 
chiefly  in  the  immolation  of  the  libretto,  to  the  exigences  of 
fixed  aria,  scena,  and  recitative.  The  drama  which  has 
to  be  stretched  upon  that  Procrustean  bed  must  necessarily 
become  disjointed  and  lifeless  in  the  process.  Rossini  re- 
tarded the  progress  of  the  musical  drama  for  at  least  fifty 
years  through  the  absolute  triumph  of  melody,  in  the  most 
fascinating  abundance,  over  the  resources  of  the  orchestra 
and  the  inspirations  of  the  poet. 

"  His  opera,"  writes  Edward  Dannreuther,  to  whose 
pamphlet  on  Wagner  I  am  so  much  indebted,  "  is  like  a 
string  of  beads,  each  bead  being  a  glittering  and  intoxicat- 
ing tune.  Dramatic  and  poetic  truth  —  all  that  makes  a 
stage  performance  interesting — is  sacrificed  to  tunes.  Poet 
and  musician  alike  had  felt  this.  Goethe  and  Schiller  both 
found  the  operatic  form,  and  even  the  existing  stage,  so 
uncongenial,  that  they  took  to  writing  narrative  and  de- 
scriptive plays,  not  to  be  acted  at  all,  and  have  been 
followed  in  this  by  Byron,  Tennyson,  Browning  and  Swin- 
burne. Beethoven  wrote  but  one  opera,  "Fidelio,"  in  which 
the  breadth  of  the  overture,  seems  to  accuse  the  narrowness 
of  the  dramatic  form,  although  the  libretto  of"  Fidelio  "   is 


MEMORIES   OE  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


"3 


very  good,  as  times  go.  Mendelssohn  and  Schumann 
could  never  find  a  suitable  libretto. 

The  conclusion  of  all  this  is  obvious.  The  perfect  me- 
dium which  was  to  combine  the  apparently  unmanageable 
arts  was  yet  to  come,  and  Wagner  proposed  to  himself  the 
task  of  harnessing  these  fiery  steeds  to  his  triumphal  car, 
and  driving  them  all  together.  He  must  choose  his  own 
subject,  with  a  simple  plot  and  a  few  strong  passions  and 
great  situations.  He  must  write  his  own  drama,  which, 
without  being  either  orthodox  verse  or  fixed  metre,  would 
aim  in  its  mobile  and  alliterative  pathos  at  following  the 
varied  inflections  of  natural  feeling.  He  must  arrange  his 
own  scenery,  perfect  in  detail,  and  within  the  limits  of 
stage  possibility  ;  and,  finally,  he  must  compose  his  own 
music,  and  drill  his  band,  chorus,  and  characters. 

Whilst  these  aims  were  slowly  maturing  in  him  Wagner 
found  himself  constantly  at  war  with  his  age  and  his  sur- 
roundings. At  sixteen  he  had  resolved  to  devote  himself 
to  music,  finding  in  it  the  ineffable  expression  for  emotions 
otherwise  mainly  inexpressible.  Musical  notes  and  inter- 
vals were  to  him  radiant  forms  and  flaming  ministers. 
Mozart  taught  him  that  exquisite  certainty  of  touch  which 
selects  exactly  the  right  notes  to  express  a  given  musical 
idea.  Weber  taught  him  the  secret  of  pure  melody :  how 
to  stamp  with  an  indelible  type  a  given  character,  as  in  the 
return  of  the  Samiel  motive  in  "Der  Freyschutz  ;"  he  also  per- 
ceived in  that  opera  the  superiority  of  legend  and  popular 
myth,  as  on  the  Greek  stage,  to  present  the  universal  and 
eternal  aspects  of  human  life  in  their  most  pronounced  and 
ideal  forms.  Beethoven  supplied  him  with  the  mighty  or- 
chestra, capable  of  holding  in  suspension  an  immense  crowd 
of  emotions,  and  of  manipulating  the  interior  and  complex 
feelings  with  the  instantaneous  and  infallible  power  of  a 
magician's  wand.  Schubert  taught  him  the  freedom  of  song  ; 
Chopin,  the  magic  elasticity  of  chords  ;  Spohr,  the  subtle 
properties  of  the  chromatic  scale ;  and  even  Meverbeer 
revealed  to  him  the  possibility  of  stage  effect  through 
the  Grand  Opera.  Shakespeare,  Goethe,  and  Schiller  sug- 
gested the  kind  of  language  in  which  such  dramas  as 
"Lohengrin"  and  "  Rheingold  "  might  be  written  ;  whilst 
Madame  Schroder  Devrient  revealed  to  him  what  a  woman 
might  accomplish  in  the  stage  presentation  of  ideal  passion 


ii4 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


with  such  a  part  as  Elsa  in  "  Lohengrin"  or  Briinnhilde  in 
"  Walkiire." 

But  the  immediate  result  of  this,  as  I  have  said,  was  not 
promising.  Contrary  to  the  advice  of  his  friends  he  had 
thrown  himself,  heart  and  soul,  into  the  study  of  music  as  a 
profession.  Under  the  Cantor  Weinlig,  at  Leipsic,  and 
whilst  at  the  University,  he  produced  an  overture  and  sym- 
phony, which  were  played,  and  not  unfavorably  received,  at 
the  Gewandhaus  ;  but  his  early  work,  with  here  and  there  an 
exceptional  trait  in  harmony,  was  nothing  but  a  pale  copy 
of  Mozart,  as  maybe  seen  from  a  poor  little  piano  sonata 
lately  republished  by  Breitkoff. 

His  health  now  broke  down.  He  was  twenty  years  old 
(1833),  anc'  'ie  went  to  his  brother,  a  professor  of  music  at 
Wurzburg,  where  he  stayed  a  year,  at  the  end  of  which  time 
he  was  appointed  musical  director  at  the  Magdeburg  theatre, 
where,  under  the  combined  influence  of  Weber  and  Beet- 
hoven, he  produced  two  operas,  "  The  Fairies,"  and  kk  The 
Novice  of  Palermo,"  neither  of  which  succeeded.  He  left 
his  place  in  disgust,  and  obtained  another  post  at  the  Ko- 
nigsberg  theatre.  There  he  married  an  actress,  — a  good 
creature,  who,  without  being  much  to  blame,  does  not  seem 
to  have  materially  increased  his  happiness,  but  who  decid- 
edly shared  the  opinion  of  his  friends  that  the  composition 
of  "  pot-boilers"  was  superior  to  the  pursuit  of  the  Ideal. 
The  Ideal,  however,  haunted  Wagner,  and  —  Poverty. 

In  1836  he  left  with  Mina  for  Riga  on  the  shores  of  the 
Baltic,  and  there,  as  chef  cForchestre  at  the  theatre,  he 
really  appears  to  have  enjoyed  studying  the  operas  of  Mehnl, 
Spontini,  Auber ;  for,  whilst  suffering  what  he  describes  as 
a  dull,  gnawing  pain  at  the  frequent  irrelevance  of  the  senti- 
ment to  the  music,  the  nobler  correspondences  and  beauti- 
ful inspirations  gave  him  far-off  glimpses  of  that  musical 
drama  to  which  he  even  now  dimly  aspired. 

In  the  midst  of  his  routine  duties  Bulwer's  novel, "Rienzi," 
struck  his  imagination.  There,  as  on  a  large  and  classic 
stage,  was  portrayed  that  eternal  revolt  of  the  human  spirit 
against  tyranny,  routine,  selfishness,  and  corruption,  of 
which  the  Polish  insurrection  of  1S31  and  the  revolution  of 
July  were  the  modern  echoes.  Rienzi,  a  tribune  of  the 
people,  dreaming  of  the  old,  austere  Republic  in  the  midst 
of  corrupt  Papal  Rome,  —  a  noble  heart,  a  powerful  will  at 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


115 


war  with  a  brutal  and  vulgar  age,  supported,  cheered,  by  the 
enthusiasm  of  a  devoted  and  patriotic  sister  ;  raised  by  a 
wave  of  popularity  to  the  highest  summit  of  human  power, 
then  hurled  down  by  the  Papal  anathema,  betrayed  by  a 
mean  and  cowering  aristocracy,  banished  by  the  mob  that 
had  so  lately  hailed  him  as  a  deliverer,  and  at  last  falling  by 
a  treacherous  hand  upon  the  charred  and  crumbling  ashes 
of  his  own  homestead,  the  last  great  tribune  of  Rome, — 
here  was  a  subject  with  immense  outlines,  full  of  situations 
in  which  the  greatest  breadth  might  be  joined  to  the  most 
detailed  inflections  of  feeling.  In  it  Wagner,  whilst  not  de- 
parting avowedly  from  the  form  of  the  grand  opera  then  in 
vogue  in  Paris,  has  in  fact  burst  the  boundaries.  "  Rienzi  " 
is  already  the  work  of  an  independent  master ;  it  is,  at 
least,  prophetic  of"  Lohengrin"  and  "  Tristan,"  whilst  com- 
paring favorably  in  pure  melody  and  sensational  effects  with 
any  of  the  current  operas.  What  rush,  triumph,  aspira- 
tion about  the  large  outlines  and  tramping  measures  of  the 
overture  !  what  elan  and  rugged  dignity  in  the  choruses  ! 
what  elevation  in  Rienzi's  prayer,  "God  of  Light"! 
what  fervor  and  inexhaustible  faith  in  the  phrase,  "  Thou 
hast  placed  me  as  a  pilot  on  a  treacherous  and  rocky  strand  !  " 
what  imagery  as  of  vast  buildings  and  ranged  towers  dimly 
seen  athwart  the  dull  red  dawn,  in  the  music  of  "  Scatter 
the  night  that  reigns  above  this  city,"  and  what  chastened 
exaltation,  free  from  all  Italian  flourish  or  ornament,  of 
"  Rise,  thou  blessed  sun,  and  bring  with  thee  resplendent 
liberty"  ! 

But  in  1839,  which  saw  the  text  and  the  completion  of 
the  two  first  acts,  we  are  far  indeed  from  the  production 
of  "  Rienzi  ;  "  it  struck,  however,  the  key-note  of  a  most  im- 
portant, and  little  understood,  phase  in  Wagner's  career,  — 
the  political  phase. 

Musicians,  poets,  and  artists  are  not,  as  a  rule,  politicians. 
Their  world  is  the  inner  world, — the  world  of  emotion 
and  thought,  which  belongs  to  no  special  age  or  clime,  but 
is  eternal  and  universal.  Goethe  and  Beethoven  cared  little 
for  revolutions,  and  have  even  been  deemed  wanting  in  pa- 
triotism. But  Wagner  was  a  hot  politician.  He  was  at  one' 
time  a  mob  orator,  and  was  seduced  by  his  illustrious  friend 
Rockel,  who  was  afterwards  put  in  prison,  to  throw  himself 
at  Dresden  into  the  rise  of  Saxony  and  the  agitations  of  1S4S. 


1 1 6  MEMORIES  OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE. 

He  was  proscribed  and  banished  from  German  soil,  and 
years  afterwards,  when  he  had,  if  not  recanted,  at  all  events 
aquiesced  in  things  as  they  were,  he  was  obliged  to  fly 
from  Munich,  warned  by  the  friendly  king  that  his  life  was 
in  danger.  The  title  of  but  one  of  his  numerous  semi-polit- 
ical pamphlets,  "  Art  and  the  Revolution,"  gives  us  the  real 
clue  to  all  this.  People  have  accused  Wagner  of  time-serv- 
ing and  change  in  politics  ;  but  the  fact  was  that  he  favored 
social  revolution,  because  he  thought  it  needful  to  art  revolu- 
tion. Conventionality  and  stagnation  in  art  seemed  to 
him  the  natural  outcome  of  conventionality  and  stagnation 
in  society ;  the  world  must  be  recalled  to  feeling  and 
reality  before  art  could  again  become  the  ideal  life  of  the 
people  as  it  was  once  in  Greece.  But  when,  through  royal 
patronage,  later  on,  all  impediment  to  the  free  develop- 
ment of  his  art-work  disappeared,  his  revolutionary  tenden- 
cies also  disappeared.  He,  too,  was,  first  and  foremost, 
artist,  and  he  came  to  realize  his  vocation,  which  had  to  do 
with  Art,  and  with  "the  Revolution"  only  in  so  far  as  it 
affected  "Art." 

But,  in  fact,  no  ardent  soul  could  escape  the  romantic  and 
revolutionary  contagion  that  swept  over  France,  Germany, 
and  even  England,  between  1S30  and  1850.  Europe 
seemed  to  breathe  freely  once  more  after  the  iron  hand  of 
Napoleon  I.  had  been  lifted  from  her  oppressed  bosom  ; 
but  then,  like  a  wayward  child,  she  burst  into  all  kinds  of 
excesses. 

The  atheism  of  the  first  revolution,  the  brutality  of 
Napoleon  Bonaparte's  administration,  the- dulness  of  Louis 
Philippe's  ;  the  revived  taste  for  Greek  art  combined  with 
the  inflexible  dogmatism  of  the  Papal  creed, — all  these 
conspired  to  fill  the  ardent  youth  of  the  period  with  a  deep 
revolt  against  things  as  they  were.  With  this  came  a 
settled  longing  for  a  return  of  some  sort  to  nature  and  free- 
dom, and  a  vague,  but  intense,  aspiration  towards  the  ideal 
and  immaterial  world,  which  in  other  times  might  have 
taken  the  form  of  a  religious  revolution,  but  in  1S30  broke 
out  in  what  has  been  called  "  Romanticism  "  in  art.  It 
was  seen  in  the  -writings  of  Mazzini  and  the  mutterings  of 
Italian  freedom,  in  the  insatiable  and  varied  developments 
of  Madame  Sand's  genius,  in  the  wild  and  pathetic  cries  of 
Alfred  de  Musset,  in  the  sentimentalism  of  Lamartine,  in 


MEMORIES   OE  A   MUSICAL   LIFE.  1 17 

the  vast  scorn  and  bitter  invective  of  Hugo,  in  the  heart- 
broken submission  of  Lacordaire,  and  in  the  despair  of  De 
Lammenais.  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Tennyson  caught  both 
the  most  earthly  and  the  most  heavenly  echoes  of  the  roman- 
tic movement  in  England  ;  whilst  its  inner  life  and  genius 
have  found,  after  all,  their  most  subtle  expression  in  the 
music  of  Beethoven,  Mendelssohn,  Schumann,  Berlioz, 
Chopin,   Wagner,   Liszt,  and  Rubinstein. 

Wagner  had  left  Magdeburg  for  Riga,  but  he  soon  came 
to  the  end  of  his  tether  there.  A  stupid  little  provincial 
town  was  not  likely  to  become  then  what  Wagner  has  made 
Bayreuth  since,  —  the  stage  for  turning  upside-down  the 
art-theories  of  the  civilized  world.  Pushed  by  what  he 
calls  "despair,"  without  money  and  without  friends,  but 
with  that  settled  faith  in  himself  which  has  made  him  inde- 
pendent of  both  until  it  has  won  both,  the  obscure  chef 
d? orchestre  resolved  to  go  to  Paris  and  storm  the  Grand 
Opera  ;  then  at  the  feet  of  Rossini  and  that  strange,  unscru- 
pulous bric-a-brac  composer,  Meyerbeer  !  The  small  vessel 
in  which  he  sailed  was  blown  about  the  Baltic  for  three 
weeks,  put  into  many  desolate  coast-nooks,  and  nearly 
wrecked.  After  many  hardships,  shared  with  the  rough 
and  often  starving  crew,  the  lonely  musician  arrived  in 
London  (1840),  with  his  head  full  of  Paris  and  the  Grande 
Opera,  and  with  "  Rienzi "  in  his  carpet-bag. 

Whilst  here  he  playfully  seized  the  musical  motive  of  the 
English  people.  It  lay,  he  said,  in  the  five  consecutive 
ascending  notes  (after  the  first  three)  of  "  Rule  Britannia  :" 
there  was  expressed  the  whole  breadth  and  downright  bluff 
"  go  "  of  the  British  nation.  He  threw  "  Rule  Britannia  " 
into  an  overture,  and  sent  it  by  post  to  Sir  George  Smart, 
then  omnipotent  musical  professor  in  London  ;  but,  the 
postage  being  insufficient,  the  MS.  was  not  taken  in,  and  at 
this  moment  is  probably  lying  in  some  dim  archive  of  the 
post-office,  "left  till  called  for." 

WAGNER    IN    PARIS. 

Wagner  passed  two  terrible  years,  1S40-42,  in  Paris. 
Meyerbeer  had  given  him  introductions,  and  introduced 
him  later  to  M.  Joly,  a  stage-director  at  Paris,  who  was  on 
the  point  of  bankruptcy,  and  who  suspended  the  rehearsal  of 


Il8  MEMORIES  OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 

the  "Novice  of  Palermo"  at  the  last  moment.  But  this 
was  but  the  end  of  a  series  of  checks.  He  wrote  an  overture 
to  "  Faust."  His  good  friend  and  faithful  ally,  Schlesinger, 
editor  of  the  Gazette  Musicale,  got  it  rehearsed  at  the  Con- 
servatoire. It  sounded  quite  too  strange  and  bizarre  to 
those  ears  polite,  and  was  instantly  snuffed  out. 

He  submitted  a  libretto,  "  Lo\e  Forbidden,"  to  a  theatri- 
cal manager  ;  but  it  had  not  a  chance,  and  dropped.  Schles- 
inger now  employed  him  to  write,  and  he  wrote  articles 
and  novels,  and  so  kept  body  and  soul  together.  No  one 
would  listen  to  his  music  ;  but  he  was  not  a  bad  hack,  and 
was  hired  for  a  few  francs  to  anange  Halevy's  "  Queen  of 
Cyprus  "  for  the  piano,  and  the  latest  tunes  of  Donizetti  and 
Bellini  for  piano  and  cornet  a  piston. 

At  night  he  stole  into  the  Grand  Opera,  and  there,  as  he 
tells  us,  felt  quite  certain  that  his  own  works  would  one  day 
supersede  the  popular  efforts  of  Rossini  and  Meyerbeer. 
He  does  not  seem  to  have  been  dejected  like  a  lesser  soul ; 
in  what  the  French  called  his  im?nense  orgueil,  he  was 
sorry  for  their  want  of  appreciation,  but  never  dreamed  of 
altering  his  ideas  to  suit  them.  "  Je  me  flattais,"  says  the 
unpaid  musical  hack,  "  d'imposer  les  miennes."  Mean- 
while the  splendid  band  of  the  Conservatoire,  under  Habe- 
neck,  consoled  him,  and  on  the  Boulevards  he  often  met 
and  chatted  with  Auber,  for  whom  he  had  a  sincere  respect 
and  admiration.  Auber  was  at  least  a  conscientious  mu- 
sician of  genius,  who  knew  his  business,  and  did  not  debase 
what  was  at  no  time  a  very  exalted,  but  still  a  legitimate, 
branch  of  his  art,  the  opera  comique ;  and,  besides,  Auber 
was  a  bon  comarade*  and  liked  Wagner,  probably  without 
understanding  him. 

After  months  of  drudgery,  and  chiefly  pennv-a-lining  for 
the  Gazette  Musicale,  Wagner  felt  the  imperious  necessity 
for  a  return  to  his  own  art.  He  took  a  little  cottage  outside 
Paris,  hired  a  piano,  and  shut  himself  up.  He  had  done 
for  a  time,  at  least,  with  the  mean,  frivolous,  coarse  world 
of  Paris  ;  he  did  not  miss  his  friends,  he  did  not  mind  his 
poverty.  He  was  again  on  the  wild  Norwegian  coast, 
beaten  about  with  storms,  and  listening  to  the  weird  tales 
of  mariners,  as  in  broken  and  abrupt  utterances,  or  with 
bated  breath,  they  confided  to  him  the  legend  common  in 
one  form  or  other  to  seafaring  folk  in  all  parts  of  the  world. 


MEMORIES   OE  A  MUSICAL  LIEE. 


119 


—  the  legend  of  the  "  Flying  Dutchman."  The  tale  sprang 
from  the  lives  and  adventures  of  those  daring  navigators  of 
the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  and  reflects  the  desper- 
ate struggle  with  the  elements,  the  insatiable  thirst  for  the 
discovery  of  new  lands  athwart  unknown  seas  ;  and  it  seems 
to  embody  forever  the  avenging  vision  of  men  who,  resolved 
to  win,  had  so  often  dared  and  lost  all.  A  famous  captain, 
mad  to  double  the  Cape  of  Storms,  beaten  back  again  and 
again,  at  length  swears  a  mighty  oath  to  persevere  through- 
out eternity.  The  devil  takes  him  at  his  word.  The  cap- 
tain doubles  the  Cape,  but  is  doomed  to  roam  the  seas  for- 
ever from  pole  to  pole,  —  as  the  Wandering  Jew  to  tread 
the  earth,  —  his  phantom  vessel  the  terror  of  all  mariners, 
and  the  dreadful  herald  of  shipwreck.  Here  was  a  legend 
which  needed  but  one  inspired  touch  of  love  to  make  it  a 
grand  epitome  of  seafaring  life,  with  its  hard  toils,  its  for- 
lorn hopes,  and  its  tender  and  ineffable  sweet  respites.  The 
accursed  doom  of  the  Flying  Dutchman  can  be  lifted  by 
human  love  alone.  The  captain,  driven  by  an  irrepressible 
longing  for  rest,  may  land  once  in  seven  years,  and  if  he  can 
find  a  woman  who  will  promise  to  be  his,  and  remain  faith- 
ful to  him  for  one  term  of  seven  years,  his  trial  will  be  over 

—  he  will  be  saved. 

The  legend  thus  humanized  becomes  the  vehicle  for  the 
expression  of  those  intense,  yet  simple,  feelings  and  situ- 
ations which  popular  myth,  according  to  Wagner,  has  the 
property  of  condensing  into  universal  types.  Immense 
unhappiness,  drawn  by  magnetic  attraction  to  immense 
love,  tried  by  heart-rending  doubt  and  uncertainty,  and 
crowned  with  fidelity  and  triumphant  love,  the  whole  em- 
bodied in  a  clear,  simple  story  summed  up  in  a  few  situations 
of  terrible  strength  and  inexorable  truth,  —  such  is  Wagner's 
conception  of  the  drama  of  the  "  Flying  Dutchman,"  with  its 
damnation  motive  belonging  to  the  captain,  and  its  salva- 
tion motive  given  to  the  bride ;  its  sailor's  subject,  its  pilot's 
song,  its  spinning-wheel  home-melody,  and  its  stormy 
"Hoeho"  chorus.  The  whole  drama  is  shadowed  forth 
in  the  magic  and  tempestuous  overture,  and  stands  out  as 
this  composer's  first  straightforward  desertion  of  history 
proper,  and  adoption  of  myth  as  the  special  rule  of  the  new 
musical  drama.  Six  weeks  of  ceaseless  labor,  which  to 
Wagner  were  weeks  of  spontaneous  and  joyful  production, 


120  MEMORIES  OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

sufficed  to  complete  the  music  of  the  "  Flying  Dutch- 
man." The  immediate  result  in  Paris  was  ludicrous.  The 
music  was  instantly  judged  to  be  absurd,  and  Wagner  was 
forced  to  sell  the  libretto,  which  was  handed  over  to 
Frenchman,  one  M.  P.  Fouche,  who  could  write  music. 
It  appeared  with  that  gentleman's  approved  setting,  under 
the  title  of  "  Le  Vaisseau  Fantome." 

This  was  enough !  No  lower  depth  could  well  be 
reached,  and  Wagner  was  preparing  to  leave  Paris  to  the 
tender  mercies  of  Rossini,  Meyerbeer,  and  M.  P.  Fouche, 
when  news  reached  him  from  Germany  that  "  Rienzi," 
flouted  in  the  capital  of  taste,  had  been  accepted  in  Ber- 
lin and  Dresden. 

It  was  the  spring  of  1842,  and  it  was  also  the  rapid  and 
wondrous  turn  of  the  tide  for  Wagner.  He  hurried  to 
Dresden,  to  find  the  rehearsals  of  "Rienzi"  already 
advanced.  The  opera  was  produced  with  that  singular 
burst  of  enthusiasm  which  greets  the  first  appreciation  of  an 
important,  but  long-neglected,  truth,  and  Wagner,  having 
become  the  favorite  of  the  Crown  Prince,  was  elected 
Kapellmeister  at  Dresden,  and  found  himself  for  the  first 
time  famous.  Some  might  now  have  rested  on  their  lau- 
rels, but  to  Wagner's  imperious  development  "Rienzi" 
was  already  a  thing  of  the  past.  He  had  drank  of  the  crys- 
talline waters  of  popular  myth,  and  was  still  thirsty.  The 
"  Flying  Dutchman"  had  opened  up  a  new  world  to  him, 
more  real  because  more  exhaustive  of  human  feelings  and 
character  than  the  imperfect  types  and  broken  episodes  of 
real  history.  He  seemed  to  stand  where  the  fresh  springs 
of  inspiration  welled  up  from  a  virgin  soil ;  he  listened  to 
the  childlike  voices  of  primitive  peoples,  inspired  from  the 
simple  heart  of  Nature,  and  babbling  eternal  verities  with- 
out knowing  it.  Legend  was  the  rough  ore  ;  the  plastic 
element  he  could  seize  and  remould,  as  yEschylus  re- 
moulded Prometheus,  or  Sophocles  CEdipus,  adding  philo- 
sophic analvsis  and  the  rich  adornments  of  poetic  fancy 
and  artistic  form. 

The  legend  of"  Tannhauser"  now  engrossed  him.  The 
drama  was  soon  conceived  and  written.  There  he  summed 
up.  in  a  few  glowing  scenes,  the  opposition  between  that 
burst  of  free,  sensuous  life  at  the  Renaissance,  and  the  hard, 
narrow  ideal  of  Papal  Christianity.     Christ  not  only  crowned 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


with  thorns,  but  turned  into  stone,  is  all  the  answer  that 
Christianity  had  to  give  to  that  stormy  impulse  which  at  last 
poured  its  long-pent-up  torrent  over  Europe.  The  deep 
revolt  still  stares  us  in  the  face  from  the  Italian  canvases, 
as  we  look  at  the  sensuous  figures  of  Raphael  or  Titian,  — 
the  free  types  of  fair,  breathing  life,  surrounded  with  the 
hard  aureole  of  the  artificial  saint,  or  limned  as  in  mockery, 
like  the  dreams  of  a  Pagan  world  upon  the  walls  of  the 
Vatican. 

Tannhauser,  a  Thuringian  knight,  taking  refuge  with 
Venus,  no  longer  the  beneficent  Holda,  joy  of  gods  and  men, 
but  turned  by  the  excesses  of  the  ascetic  spirit  into  a  malign 
witch,  and  banished  to  the  bowels  of  the  earth  in  the  Venus- 
berg  ;  Tannhauser,  with  a  touch  eternally  true  to  nature, 
bursting  the  fetters  of  an  unruly  sensual  life,  and  sighing  for  a 
healthier  activity  ;  Tannhauser  seeing  for  a  moment  only,  in 
the  pure  love  of  woman,  the  reconciliation  of  the  senses  with 
the  spirit,  a  reconciliation  made  forever  impossible  by  the 
stupid  bigotry  of  a  false  form  of  religion,  but  which  is  ulti- 
mately sealed  and  accomplished  by  love  and  death  in  hea- 
ven, ■ —  this  is  the  human  and  sublime  parable  of  the  drama, 
wrought  out  with  the  fervor  of  a  religious  devotee,  and 
epitomized  in  that  prodigious  overture  wherein  the  dirge  of 
the  church  mingles  with  the  free  and  impassioned  song  of 
the  minstrel  knight,  and  clashes  wildly  with  the  voluptuous 
echoes  of  the  fatal  Venusberg. 

Wagner's  progress  was  now  checked  by  that  storm  of  in- 
vective which  burst  out  all  over  the  art- world  of  Germany, 
—  not  on  account  of"  Rienzi,"  but  in  consequence  of  the 
"Flying  Dutchman,"  and  especially  of  "Tannhauser." 

The  reason  is  simple.  The  power  of  "  Rienzi,"  the  au- 
dacity of  its  sentiment,  the  simplicity  of  its  outline,  and  the 
realism  of  its  mz'se  en  scene,  together  with  a  general  respect 
for  the  old  opera  forms,  ensured  it  a  hearing  which  resulted 
in  a  legitimate  triumph.  But  in  "  Tannhauser  "  the  new 
path  was  already  struck  out,  which  singers,  band,  audience, 
critics,  and  composers,  in  a  body,  refused  to  tread  ;  in  short, 
aria,  recitative,  and  ballet  were  dethroned,  and  suddenly 
found  themselves  servants  where  they  had  been  masters. 

In  1843  the  "Flying  Dutchman"  was  produced  at 
Dresden,  and  failed.  "Rienzi"  was  still  revived  with 
success.     Wagner  now  sent  the  "  Dutchman  "  and  "  Tann- 


I22  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

hauser  "  to  various  theatres.  The  former  was  tried  at  Berlin 
in  1844,  and  failed.  Spohr  had  the  intelligence  to  take  it 
up  at  Cassel,  and  wrote  a  friendly  and  appreciative  letter  to 
VVagner  ;  but  the  MS.  scores  were,  as  a  rule,  returned  by  the 
other  theatres,  and  the  new  operas  seemed  to  react  on  the 
earlier  success,  for  at  Hamburg  "  Rienzi  "  failed. 

Meanwhile,  failure,  together  with  the  close  sympathy  of 
a  few  devoted  friends,  convincing  him  that  he  was  more 
right  than  ever,  Wagner  now  threw  himself  into  the  com- 
pletion of  that  work  which  is  perhaps  of  the  whole  his  most 
perfect,  as  it  certainly  is  his  most  popular,  creation,  "  Lohen- 
grin." The  superb  acting  and  singing  of  Miles.  Titiens, 
Nilsson,  and  Albani  will  be  fresh  in  the  minds  of  many 
readers.  The  choruses  in  England  have  never  yet  been  up 
to  the  mark  ;  but  the  band  under  Sir  Michael  Costa,  at  its 
best,  rendered  the  wondrxms  prelude  to  perfection. 

The  whole  of  "•Lohengrin"  is  in  that  prelude.  The 
descent  of  the  Knight  of  the  Swan  from  the  jasper  shrines 
of  the  sacred  palace  of  Montsalvat,  hidden  away  in  a  distant 
forest  land  ;  his  holy  mission  to  rescue/ Elsa  from  her  false 
accusers  ;  his  high  and  chivalric  love ;  his  dignified  trouble 
at  being  urged  by  her  to  reveal  his  name,  that  insatiable 
feminine  curiosity  which  wrecks  the  whole ;  the  darker 
scenes  of  treachery  by  which  Elsa  is  goaded  on  to  press  her 
fatal  inquiry  ;  the  magnificent  climax  of  the  first  act ;  the 
sense  of  weird  mystery  that  hangs  about  the  appearance  and 
reappearance  of  the  swan,  and  the  final  departure  of  the 
glittering  Knight  of  the  Sangraal :  allegory  of  heavenly 
devotion  stooping  to  lift  up  human  love  and  dashed  with 
earth's  bitterness  in  the  attempt.  —  to  those  who  understand 
the  pathos,  delicacy,  and  full  intensity  of  the  tw  Lohengrin" 
prelude,  this  and  more  will  become  as  vivid  as  art  and 
emotion  can  make  it.  k'  Lohengrin,"  in  its  elevation, 
alike  in  its  pain,  its  sacrifice,  and  its  peace,  is  the  necessary 
reaction  from  that  wreck  of  sensual  passion  and  religious 
despair  so  vividly  grasped  in  the  scenes  of  the  "  Venus- 
berg,"  in  the  pilgrim  chant  and  the  wayside  crucifix  of 
"  Tannhauser." 

"Lohengrin"  was  finished  in  1S47 ;  but  the  political 
events  of  the  next  few  years  brought  Wagner's  career  in 
Germany  to  an  abrupt  conclusion.  His  growing  dissatis- 
faction with  society  coincided,  unconsciously  no  doubt,  with 


MEMORIES   OF  A    MUSICAL   LIFE. 


123 


:he  failure  of  his  operas  after  that  first  dawn  of  success.  He 
low  devoted  himself  to  criticism  and  politics. 

In  1855,  owing  to  the  earnest  advocacy  of  such  friends  as 
VI.  Ferdinand  Praeger,  who  for  thirty  years,  through  evil 
report  and  good  report,  had  never  ceased  to  support  VVagner, 
he  Philharmonic  Society  invited  him  over  to  London,  and 
whilst  here  he  conducted  eight  concerts.  He  was  not  popu- 
ar  ;  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  the  band  thought  it  un- 
lecessary  to  rehearse,  and  the  band  was  surprised  that  he 
should  require  so  much  rehearsal.  But  he  drove  the  band 
n  spite  of  itself,  and  the  band  hated  him.  They  said  he 
nurdered  Beethoven  with  his  baton,  because  of  the  freedom 
md  inspiration  of  his  readings.  Mendelssohn's  Scotch 
symphony  had  been  deliberately  crushed,  or  it  was  the  only 
hing  that  went,  according  to  which  paper  you  happened 
o  read.  He  did  not  care  for  the  press,  and  he  was  not 
nuch  surprised  that  the  press  did  not  care  for  him.  The 
infailing  musical  intelligence  of  the  Queen  and  Prince  Albert 
vas  the  only  ray  of  sunlight  in  this  his  second  visit  to  our 
nhospitable  land  ;  but  the  power  of  the  man  could  not  be 
lid,  even  from  his  enemies  ;  his  culture  astonished  the  half- 
xlucated  musicians  by  whom  he  was  surrounded,  his  brilliant 
originality  impressed  even  his  own  friends,  who  saw  hirn 
struggling  through  an  imperfect  acquaintance  with  French 
md  English  to  make  himself  understood.  One  evening, 
done  in  company  with  M.  Sainton,  Hector  Berlioz,  and 
Ferdinand  Praeger,  Wagner  surprised  them  all  by  suddenlv 
aunching  out  on  art,  music,  and  philosophy.  Berlioz  was 
m  elegant  speaker,  accustomed  to  lead  easily  ;  but  Wagner, 
vith  his  torrent  of  broken  French  and  his  rush  of  molten 
deas,  silenced,  bewildered,  delighted  and  astonished  them 
ill.  Berlioz  is  gone  ;  but  that  night  still  lives  in  the  memory 
)f  those  who  were  present  who  survive,  and  from  whose  lips 
[  have  the  incident. 

In  1874  Herr  Hans  von  Bulow,  pupil  of  Liszt  and  great 
exponent  of  Wagner's  music,  came  over,  and,  by  his  wonder- 
ul  playing,  aided  steadily  by  the  periodical  Wagnerian  and 
^iszt  concerts  given  by  Messrs.  Dann'reuther  and  Bache, 
it  which  Biilow  conducted  Wagner's  music,  brought  about 
he  rise  of  the  new  Wagner  movement  in  England,  which 
eceived  its  development  in  the  interest  occasioned  by  the 
Bayreuth  Festival,  and  reached  its  climax  in  the  Wagner 


124  MEMORIES    OE  A    MUSICAL  LIFE. 

Festival,  actively  promoted  by  Herr  Wilhelmj,  and  under- 
taken by  Messrs.  Hodges  and  Essex,  in  1S77,  at  the  Albert 
Hall. 

Mina,  Wagner's  first  wife,  was  now  dead.  I  cannot  here 
tell  at  length  how  Liszt  (whose  daughter,  Cosima  von 
Biilow,  became  Wagner's  second  wife,  in  1870)  labored 
at  Weimar  with  untiring  zeal  to  produce  Wagner's  works, 
and  how  his  efforts  were  at  last  crowned  with  success  all 
over  Germany  in  1849-50.  It  was  a  popular  triumph.  I 
remember  old  Cipriani  Potter,  the  friend  of  Beethoven,  say- 
ing to  me  at  the  time  when  the  English  papers  teemed  with 
the  usual  twaddle  about  Wagner's  music  being  intelligible 
only  to  the  few,  "It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  this  stuff  here, 
but  in  Germany  it  is  the  people,  the  common  people,  who 
crowd  to  the  theatre  when  '  Tannhauser '  and  '  Lohen- 
grin '  are  given."  I  have  noticed  the  same  at  the  Covent 
Garden  concerts  ;  it  was  always  the  pit  and  gallery  who 
called  for  the  Wagner  nights  whilst  the  opera  which  had 
the  great  run  with  Carl  Rosa's  English  Company  was  the 
"  Flying  Dutchman,"  whilst  "  Tannhauser "  and  "Lohen- 
grin "at  both  houses  were  invariably  the  crowded  nights. 

In  1 86 1  the  Parisians  showed  their  taste  and  chic  by 
whistling  "  Tannhauser"  off' the  stage. 

In  1863  Wagner  appeared  at  Vienna,  Prague,  Leipsic, 
St.  Petersburg,  Moscow,  Pesth,  and  conducted  concerts 
with  brilliant  success.  In  1864  his  constant  friend,  the 
Crown  Prince,  now  Ludwigll.,  of  Bavaria,  summoned  him 
to  Munich,  where  the  new  operas  of  "  Tristan,"  in  1865, 
and  "  Meistersinger,"  in  1868,  "Das  Rheingold,"  in  1869. 
and  "  Die  Walkiire,"  in  1870,  were  successfully  given  with 
ever-increasing  appreciation  and  applause. 

The  "  Meistersinger,"  through  which  there  runs  a  strongly 
comic  vein,  deals  with  the  contrast  between  the  old,  stiff* 
forms  of  minstrelsy  by  rule  and  the  spontaneous  revolt  of  a 
free,  musical,  and  poetical  genius,  and  the  work  forms  a  hu- 
morous and  almost  Shakespearian  pendant  to  the  great  and 
solemn  minstrelsy  which  fills  the  centre  of"  Tannhauser." 
In  Wagner's  opinion  it  is  the  opera  most  likely  to  find  favor 
with  an  English  audience,  a  point  since  established  by  the 
German  opera  performances  under  Richter. 

"  Tristan  and  Iseult,"  in  which  the  drama  and  analysis  of 
passion,  love,  and  death  is  wrought  up  to  its  highest  pitch, 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  125 

was  thrown  off  between  the  two  first  and  two  last  great  sec- 
tions of  the"  Tetralogie,"andthe  "  Tetralogie,"  itself  planned 
twenty  years  ago  and  produced  at  Bayreuth  in  1S76,  seemed 
the  last  most  daring  and  complete  manifestation  of  Wagner's 
dramatic,  poetic,  and  musical  genius,  until  "  Parsifal "  re- 
vealed still  greater  heights  and  depths  in  18S2. 

PERSONAL    TRAITS. 

Wagner  offended  a  great  many  people  in  the  course  of 
his  life  ;  but,  then,  a  great  many  people  offended  Wagner. 
Those  who  hated  him  lied  about  him  unscrupulously,  but 
not  even  his  worst  enemies  ever  accused  Wagner  of  lying 
about  them.  He  was  an  egotist  in  the  sense  that  he  believed 
in  himself;  but,  then,  one  must  remember  that,  in  his  own 
estimation,  for  more  than  forty  years  Richard  Wagner  had 
been  the  greatest  figure  in  the  musical  world. 

For  nearly  half  a  century  there  was  no  one  to  believe  in 
Richard  Wagner  except  Richard  Wagner.  Then,  by-and-by, 
the  crowned  heads,  and,  what  was  more  to  the  point,  the 
heads  of  opera-houses,  came  round,  and  we  had  bowing  and 
scraping  on  all  sides ;  and  connoisseurs  arrived,  cap  in 
hand,  to  interview  the  great  man,  and  tell  him  to  his  face, 
"  Richard  Wagner,  we  deem  you  one  of  the  greatest 
musicians  that  ever  lived."  —  "  Bah  !  "  says  Wagner,  "I  told 
you  that  forty  years  ago  ;  I  can  do  without  you  now." 

Wagner's  was  certainly  one  of  the  strongest  and  most  in- 
dependent natures  I  ever  came  across.  He  cared  neither  for 
money,  nor  for  rank,  nor  for  the  opinions  of  his  contempo- 
raries. 

Although  the  most  intimate  friend  of  the  King  of  Bavaria, 
he  was  not  a  man  whom  princes  could  order  about  or 
control.  I  remember  very  well  his  refusing  to  exhibit  him- 
self to  order  in  the  box  of  a  certain  high  personage  at  the 
Albert  Hall  when  he  was  in  England,  although  he  readily 
availed  himself  of  the  privilege  of  visiting  Her  Majesty 
at  Windsor.  Wagner  never  forgot  that  the  Queen  and 
Prince  Albert  recognized  his  genius  on  the  occasion  of  his 
first  visit  to  England,  and  his  illustrious  patrons  were  then 
in  a  very  small  minority. 

Wagner  was  adored  by  his  household.  His  life  in 
Switzerland  was  as  regular  as  it  was  laborious.     He  rose  at 


I26  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 

six,  bathed,  then  reclined  and  read  till  ten,  breakfasted, 
worked  uninterruptedly  from  eleven  till  two,  dined, 
rested,  always  with  a  book  in  hand,  drove  from  four  till 
six,  worked  from  six  till  eight,  supped,  and  spent  the  even- 
ing in  the  midst  of  his  family. 

His  poor  relations  took  advantage  of  him.  His  rustic 
family  connections  seemed  to  rise  out  of  the  earth  wherever 
he  stood,  and  claim  his  assistance  or  protection.  They 
would  come  on  a  visit  and  forget  to  leave ;  they  would 
drop  in  at  meal-time ;  they  would  use  his  name,  order 
things  of  his  trades-people  and  forget  to  pay,  travel  under 
his  -prestige,  and  lodge  at  his  expense. 

He  was  very  fond  of  animals,  especially  dogs  ;  his  favorite 
dog,  "Mark,"  is  buried  not  far  from  his  own  grave.  The 
"  Meistersinger  "  was  arrested  for  months  in  consequence  of 
attentions  paid  to  a  poor  dog  he  had  met  Wandering  sick 
and  masterless.  The  ungrateful  animal  bit  his  hand,  and 
for  months  Wagner  was  unable  to  hold  a  pen  ;  but  the  dog 
was  equally  well  cared  for. 

When  not  absolutely  absorbed  in  his  work  he  was  most 
thoughtful  for  others,  and  was  always  planning  for  their 
comfort  and  happiness  ;  and,  although  quick  and  at  times 
irritable,  he  could  bear  suffering  calmly. 

He  was  naturally  adored  by  his  servants,  who  stayed 
with  him  so  long  that  they  became  like  members  of  the 
family.  He  had  an  extraordinary  power  of  attracting 
people  to  his  person. 

Liszt,  de  Biilow,  Richter,  Wilhelmj,  and  all  his  staff  of 
artists  were  absolutely  devoted  to  him,  and  gave  him  years 
of  willing  service  which  no  money  could  have  paid  for  or 
secured.  The  talented  painter,  Paul  Toukowski,  left  his 
atelier  at  Naples  to  come  and  live  at  Bayreuth  and  paint  the 
"  Parsifal  "  scenery  ;  and  what  scenery  it  is  !  What  dim 
forests,  what  enchanted  caves,  what  massive  walls  and 
battlements,  what  enchanted  bowers,  what  more  than 
tropical  bloom  and  foliage  !  It  was  long  before  the  artist 
could  satisfy  Wagner  with  that  magic  garden.  The  master 
would  have  the  flowers  as  large  as  the  girls,  and  he  would 
have  the  girls  exactlv  like  the  flowers.  It  was  difficult ;  but 
it  is  enough  to  say  that  Wagner  willed  it,  and  it  was  done. 

His  influence  with  the  actors  was  supreme  ;  never  would 
they   have  attempted   for  another   what   they  did  for  him. 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


I27 


The  Rhine  girls  were  terrified  at  the  cages  in  which  they 
had  to  be  swung  up  and  down  in  the  Rhine  depths,  singing 
all  the  time.  They  refused  at  first  to  face  a  situation  which 
appeared  more  fit  for  acrobats  than  for  dramatic  artists. 
They  would  not  get  into  their  cages  at  all,  until  the  master, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  besought  them  to  try,  and  then  all 
went  easily,  and  more  than  well. 

I  confess  I  came  fully  under  Wagner's  spell.  I  spent  a 
delightful  evening  at  his  house  in  1876.  It  was  at  the  close 
of  the  first  Bayreuth  Festival.  All  the  corps  dramatic  were 
present.  Richter,  the  conductor,  was  chatting  with  Wil- 
helmj,  the  leader  of  the  orchestra,  when  I  went  up  to  him 
and  asked  him  whether  he  had  recruited  his  strength  well 
at  Nuremburg.  There,  a  few  nights  before,  I  had  met  him  in 
company  with  Professor  Ella,  and  in  the  quiet  old  city  of 
Albert  Diirer  we  had  spent  an  evening  over  a  good  bottle 
of  Rhine  wine,  amid  the  fumes  of  those  detestable  black 
cheroots  which  Liszt  was  so  fond  of. 

Then  I  caught  sight  of  Walter  Bache,  who  introduced  me 
to  Liszt ;  and  presently  Richter  took  me  up  and  presented 
me  to  Wagner. 

His  face  beamed  with  kindness  and  geniality  ;  he  spoke 
French,  said  he  had  been  in  England  long,  long  ago,  and 
would  perhaps  come  again.  He  had  great  doubts  whether 
the  English  were  sufficiently  serious  in  art  ever  to  appreciate 
his  tw  Ring,"  and  seemed  pleased  when  I  told  him  of  the 
great  popularitv  of  his  music  at  the  Promenade  Concerts, 
and  the  increasing  appreciation  of  "  Lohengrin  "  and 
"  Tannhauser."  "  Earlier  works,"  he  said,  shrugging  his 
shoulders. 

Wagner's  friendship  with  the  King  of  Bavaria  had  no 
doubt  contributed  largely  to  the  realization  of  all  his  plans 
during  his  own  lifetime.  The  notion  of  building  a  special 
theatre,  where  the  orchestra  should  be  out  of  sight ;  the 
seats  arranged  tier  above  tier,  with  a  single  row  of  boxes 
and  a  gallery  above  them  had  been  long  in  his  mind. 

The  king  was  anxious  for  the  theatre  to  be  in  Munich  ; 
but  the  opposition  of  the  court,  on  account  of  Wagner's 
political  opinions,  was  then  too  great.  Later  on  the  hotel- 
keepers  offered  to  build  a  theatre  there  on  their  own 
account,  and  to  carry  out  Wagner's  plans  free  of  charge 
as  a  speculation. 


128  Af EMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 

Wagner  declined.  He  chose  Bayreuth.  He  was  beholden 
to  none  save  the  king  and  his  own  followers.  They  had 
stood  by  him,  rehearsed  his  fame,  produced  his  works, 
and  they  built  his  theatre  ;  but  every  detail  was  directed  by 
Wagner,  and  the  perfection  which  the  Bayreuth  perform- 
ances have  at  last  reached  is  due  to  the  same  exhaustive 
and  unremitting  personal  care. 

It  was  only  natural  that  the  master  should  yield  the  baton 
to  a  friend  like  Richter,  whose  experience,  physique,  and 
consummate  talent  would  enable  him  to  perfect  the  execu- 
tive part  of  the  work  ;  but  it  was  my  privilege  in  England 
to  see  Wagner  himself  conduct  some  of  his  own  music  at 
the  Albert  Hall.  Some  said  he  had  already  lost  nerve  as 
a  conductor,  and,  indeed,  had  never  possessed  the  requisite 
patience.  That  may  have  been  to  some  extent  true,  but 
it  did  not  strike  me. 

A  French  critic  has  written  :  "  Wagner  plays  on  the 
orchestra  as  though  it  were  a  gigantic  fiddle,  with  a  firm- 
ness of  touch  which  never  fails  him,  and  sovereign  authority 
before  which  all  are  happy  in  bowing  down.  To  have  an 
idea  of  so  extraordinary  a  conductor  one  must  have  seen 
him." 

The  close  of  Wagner's  life  was  crowned  by  the  two  great 
Olympian-like  festivals  in  1S76  and  1S82.  The  Memorial 
Festival  in  1S83  was  his  requiem  ;  whilst  the  whole  of  the 
city  was  resounding  with  his  name  and  fame  the  great 
master's  body  lay  at  rest  in  a  funereal  bower  adjoining  the 
Neue  Schloss.  The  event  of  1876  was,  I  suppose,  unpre- 
cedented in  the  annals  of  modern  art.  I  have  devoted  to 
it  a  separate  notice.  It  was  my  privilege  to  witness  the 
first  unfolding  of  those  four  colossal  musical  dramas  of  the 
"  Nibelung's  Ring  "  on  the  Bayreuth  stage.  People  had 
assembled  from  all  parts  of  the  civilized  world ;  kings, 
princes,  and  nobles  mingled  in  that  motley  throng.  The 
dramas  lasted  every  day  from  four  till  ten,  with  intervals 
of  an  hour  between  the  acts.  The  whole  population  lived 
only  in  the  life  of  that  great  cycle  of  tragedies  in  which 
gods,  demi-gods,  and  mortals  acted  out,  with  more  than 
earthly  intensity,  the  perennially  interesting  dramas  of 
human  life  and  passion. 

It  was  between  the  festival  of  1876  at  Bayreuth,  and  the 
performance  of  "  Parsifal  "  in  1882,   that  Wagner  came  tc 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


129 


England  to  assist  at  the  presentation  of  the  "  Ring  "  music 
at  the  Albert  Hall.  He  was  shaken  in  health,  and  exceed- 
ingly indisposed  to  take  any  exertion  not  directly  bearing 
upon  his  work,  which  was  the  new  "  Parsifal"  drama.  He 
was  not  satisfied  with  his  reception  at  the  Albert  Hall.  He 
was  much  courted  in  society,  but  avoided  anything  like 
public  receptions,  and  was  considered  over-retiring  and 
reticent  by  casual  observers. 

The  Wagner  furor  being  now  on  the  increase  after  his 
departure,  the  two  principal  London  theatres  were  opened 
in  the  spring  and  summer  of  1SS0,  —  Covent  Garden  for 
the  performance  of  the  "Nibelung's  Ring,"  and  Drury  Lane 
for  the  presentation  of  all  his  other  operas  seriatim.  Neither 
proved  a  commercial  success,  the  market  being  thus  quite 
overstocked.  But  the  Wagner  excitement  was  still  on  the 
increase,  and  when  the  "  Parsifal  "  came  to  be  produced  at 
Bayreuth,  in  18S2,  Bayreuth  was  as  thronged  as  in  1S76. 

wagner's  death. 

Wagner  died  suddenly  on  the  13th  of  February,  1SS3,  at 
Venice,  whither  he  had  come  to  recruit  after  the  "  Parsifal  " 
performances  in  18S2,  and  to  prepare  for  their  renewal  in 
the  following  year.  He  was  cut  oft*  in  the  full  vigor  of  his 
productive  genius.  Time  had  not  dimmed  his  eye,  nor 
shaken  his  hand,  nor  closed  a  single  channel  of  thought 
or  emotion.  He  sank  thus  suddenly  in  the  spring  of  the 
year  1883,  not  without  some  warning,  yet  enjoying  life  up 
to  its  latest  hour.  l'  I  will  bear  no  longer  the  gray  clouds 
and  wintry  skies  of  Bayreuth,"  he  had  said  to  his  friends  in 
the  autumn  of  1882.- 

A  suite  of  apartments  in  the  Palace  Vendramin  at  Venice 
had  been  secured  for  him,  and  his  children  —  Daniel,  Eva, 
Isolde,  and  Siegfried  (now  twelve  years  old)  were  already 
there.  Venice  was  in  the  greatest  excitement  on  his  arrival. 
Italy  had  been  in  the  strangest  way  won  over  to  Wagner  at 
Bologna,  under  the  able  and  enthusiastic  baton  of  a  lamented 
maestro  ;  indeed,  Liszt  told  me  he  had  never  heard  Wag- 
ner's operas  more  effectively  given,  except  at  Bayreuth. 

Between  four  and  six  o'clock  he  might  often  be  seen  in 
the  arcades  and  streets,  with  all  the  family,  buying  little 
presents  for  friends,  or  sipping  coffee  or  the  good,  fresh  beer 


MEMORIES    OF  A    MUSICAL    LIFE. 


beloved  of  all  true  Germans.  The  military  band,  which 
played  occasionally  in  the  great  square,  had  produced  a  ver- 
sion of  the  "  Lohengrin  "  overture  in  his  honor  ;  but  played  it 
in  such  fashion  that  poor  Wagner  was  constrained  to  take 
refuge  in  the  pastry-cook's  shop  and  stop  his  ears  with  both 
hands. 

On  another  occasion,  however,  he  went  up  to  the  band- 
master, in  his  great-coat  and  slouched  hat,  and  asked  him 
to  play  something  out  of  Rossini's  "  Gazza  Ladra."  The  con- 
ductor, not  recognizing  Wagner,  answered  civilly  that  he 
had  none  of  the  music  there,  and  otherwise  could  not  well 
derange  the  programme.  On  Wagner  retiring,  a  musician 
told  the  band-master  who  the  stranger  was.  Filled  with 
confusion  and  regret,  the  worthy  man  instantly  sent  for 
copies  of  the  k'  Gazza  Ladra  "  selection,  and  played  it  for  two 
consecutive  days.  W^agner  was  much  pleased,  and,  again 
going  up  to  the  band,  expressed  his  thanks,  and  praised 
especially  the  solo  cornet,  who  had  much  distinguished 
himself. 

On  November  19,  1882,  Liszt  came  to  see  him  at  Venice. 
The  two  old  men  embraced  each  other  affectionately  on  the 
marble  stairs.  They  sat  long  hours  together  in  deep  and 
friendly  converse.  Joukovski,  the  artist,  who  had  painted 
the  "  Parsifal  "  scenery,  and  for  whom  the  genius  of  Wagner 
had  an  irresistible  attraction,  was  also  there.  He  painted  a 
remarkable  portrait  of  Liszt,  and  a  "•Sacred  Family  "of 
Jesus,  Joseph,  and  Mary.  The  guardian  angels  in  the  air 
above  were  all  portraits  of  Wagner's  children. 

Liszt  was  usually  up  at  four  o'clock,  and  both  Wagner 
and  Liszt  got  through  a  great  deal  of  serious  work  in  those 
small  hours. 

HIS    POPULARITY. 

Wagner's  personal  popularity  at  Venice  was  extraordinary. 
In  a  short  time  he  and  every  member  of  his  family  were 
known  even  to  the  children  of  the  poor.  The  master  was 
open-handed  and  sympathetic  to  all.  He  seemed  ever  about, 
—  now  with  his  wife,  or  with  little  Eva,  his  pet  daughter, 
or  Siegfried.  He  mixed  with  the  people,  chatted  and 
joked,  and  was  ever  ready  to  relieve  the  poor.  He  was 
worshipped    by  his    gondoliers.     k'  He    patted    me    on   the 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


l3* 


back,"  said  one,  "  asked  me  if  I  was  tired,  and  said  '  Amico 
tnio,  so  the  Carnival  has  come  to  an  end.' "  The  man  re- 
peated the  incident  everywhere,  as  if  it  had  been  the  great 
event  of  his  life.  "They  say  he  is  greater  than  a  king; 
isn't  it  so  ?  "  was  the  common  talk  in  the  streets  as  he  passed. 

On  December  23,  1SS2,  Wagner  conducted  his  earliest 
symphony,  at  the  request  of  a  small  circle  of  friends,  in  cele- 
bration of  Madame  Wagner's  birthday.  On  taking  the 
bdton  he  turned  to  the  musicians  and  said  :  — 

"  This  is  the  last  time  I  shall  ever  conduct." 

"Why?"  they  asked. 

"  Because  I  shall  soon  die." 

This  was  not  at  all  his  usual  mood  ;  he  spoke  sometimes 
of  living  till  ninety  ;  he  said  that  he  could  hardly  finish  the 
work  he  had  in  his  mind  even  then.  His  doctor  knew  that 
his  heart  disease  must  one  day  carry  him  off,  but  hoped  the 
end  might  be  delayed  for  five  or  six  years  at  least. 

February  13th  came  black  with  clouds.  The  rain  poured 
in  torrents.  Wagner  rose  as  usual,  and  announced  his 
wish  not  to  be  disturbed  till  dinner-time,  —  two  o'clock. 
He  had  much  to  do,  much  to  finish  ;  overmuch,  indeed,  and 
the  time  was  short. 

The  master  did  not  feel  quite  well,  and  Cosima,  his  wife, 
bade  Betty,  the' servant,  take  her  work  and  not  leave  the 
anteroom  in  case  her  master  should  call  or  ring. 

The  faithful  creature  seemed  to  have  some  presentiment 
that  all  was  not  right.  She  listened  hour  after  hour  ;  heard 
the  master  striding  up  and  down  as  was  his  wont. 

Wife  Cosima  came  in  from  time  to  time.  "  The  master 
works  ever,"  said  Betty,  "  and  has  not  called  for  anything; 
now  he  walks  to  and  fro." 

At  one  o'clock  Wagner  rang  his  bell  and  asked,  "  Is  the 
gondola  ordered  at  four  o'clock  ?  Good  ;  then  I  will  take  a 
plate  of  soup  up  here,  for  I  don't  feel  very  well." 

There  was  nothing  unusual  about  this,  for  when  absorbed 
in  work  he  would  often  thus  have  his  light  luncheon  alone. 

The  servant  brought  in  a  plate  of  soup  and  retired.  All 
seemed  quiet  for  some  time.  Then  suddenly  a  hurried  pac- 
ing up  and  down  the  room  was  heard.  The  footsteps  ceased 
—  a  sharp  cough,  checked.  Betty  threw  down  her  work, 
walked  on  tiptoe  to  the  door,  and  listened  with  all  her  ears. 
She  heard  one  deep  groan  ;  she  stood  for  a  moment  divided 


132 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


between  a  resolve  to  call  Cosima  or  break  through  her 
master's  orders  and  go  into  his  room  at  once.  The  suspense 
was  soon  over.  "Betty!"  It  was  Wagner's  voice,  very- 
faint.  Betty  rushed  in.  Wagner  was  leaning  back  on  his 
sofa  ;  his  fur  coat  was  half  off,  his  feet  rested  on  a  footstool. 
His  face  was  fearfully  changed,  —  his  features  cadaverous 
and  drawn  down  with  pain  evidently ;  with  the  utmost 
difficulty  he  contrived  to  murmur,  but  almost  inaudibly, 
"Call  my  wife  and  the  doctor."     He  never  spoke  again. 

The  terrified  Betty  rushed  off  to  tell  wife  Cosima.  The 
instant  she  saw  him  she  cried,  "  To  the  doctor,  Betty !  " 

About  half  an  hour  afterwards  the  doctor  came.  One 
glance  was  enough.  After  feeling  for  the  pulse  that  was 
never  to  beat  again  he  gently  took  the  body  of  Wagner  in 
both  his  arms  and  carried  it  to  his  bed. 

Dr.  Keppler  then  turned  to  Cosima  and  said,  with  irre- 
pressible emotion,  "  He  is  dead  !  "  The  poor  wife,  who 
had  been  so  absolutely  one  in  body,  soul,  and  mind  with 
her  husband,  fell  prostrate  with  a  great  cry  upon  his  lifeless 
body,  nor  for  some  time  could  any  persuasion  induce  her  to 
leave  the  corpse,  which  she  continued  to  embrace. 

No  sooner  had  Dr.  Keppler  pronounced  the  words 
"  Richard  Wagner  is  dead  !"  from  the  steps  of  the  "  Vend- 
ramin  Palace,"  than  the  vast  throng  assembled  outside  to 
hear  the  news  dispersed  with  cries  of  "  Dead  !  dead  !  "  It 
was  commonly  said  that  since  Garibaldi's  death  no  such 
sensation  had  been  felt  in  Venice. 

Soon  after  death  Wagner  s  body  was  embalmed  by  his 
devoted  medical  attendant,  Dr.  Keppler,  and  a  cast  of  his 
face  was  taken  by  Signor  Benvenuto. 

The  bronze  coffin,  which  arrived  from  Vienna,  was  carried 
upstairs  by  Hans  Richter,  the  painter  Joukovsky,  Dr. 
Keppler,  Passini,  and  Ruben ;  and  the  dead  master  was 
borne  to  his  funereal  gondola  by  the  same  devoted  friends. 
The  general  expressions  of  sympathy  were  confined  to  no 
class. 

The  Italian  Government  had  offered  the  family  a  public 
ceremony,  which  was  declined  ;  yet  I  know  not  what  greater 
honor  could  have  been  paid  him  than  the  spontaneous  grief 
of  all  Venice.  The  canals  were  crowded  with  gondolas 
draped  in  crape. 

In  all  the  ports  through  which  the  coffin  passed  the  flags 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


133 


floated  half-mast  high.  At  every  town  where  there  was  a 
stoppage  the  municipalities  sent  deputations,  and  the  coffin 
was  strewn  with  fresh  flowers. 

At  the  head  of  the  bier  there  was  one  enormous  wreath, 
sent  by  the  King  of  Bavari: ,  Wagner's  close  friend,  and  at 
Munich  the  king  sent  his  representative  to  accompany  the 
funeral  cortege  to  Bayreuth. 

On  the  17th  the  bier  was  received  at  the  station  by  the 
inhabitants  of  Bayreuth  en  masse.  It  was  a  solemn  moment 
when  the  widow  and  her  children  stepped  out  of  their  car- 
riage, and  all  the  people  silently  uncovered  their  heads. 

Arrived  at  Wagner's  house,  "  Vahnfried," — only  a 
select  company  were  admitted  to  the  garden,  —  the  coffin 
rested  for  a  space  at  the  entrance,  but  was  not  taken  into 
the  house. 

It  was  Madame  Wagner's  express  wish  that  no  speeches 
or  prayers  should  be  made  at  the  grave,  which  had  long 
since  been  dug,  by  Wagner's  orders,  in  a  retired  spot  of 
his  own  garden,  surrounded  by  thick  bushes  and  fir-trees. 
A  simple  blessing  in  the  name  of  the  Church  was  to  be  given, 
and  the  coffin  then  lowered  in  silence. 

An  immense  slab  of  gray  polished  granite  rested  above  it, 
and  the  vault  door  was  to  be  opened  on  one  side.  Hither 
was  the  body  now  brought  by  a  silent  and  sorrowing 
throng  of  attached  friends,  among  them  Liszt,  Biilow,  Rich- 
ter,  Joukovsky,  and  many  more.  On  either  side  walked 
Wagner's  children. 

Then  Herr  Caselmann,  in  the  simplest  words,  committed 
the  departed  and  all  his  family  to  the  care  of  Christ,  and 
blessed  the  assembly  and  the  grave  in  the  name  of  the 
Church.  A  few  took  a  leaf  or  a  flower  as  it  fell  from  the 
piled-up  heap,  and  the  body  was  lowered  silently  into  its 
last  resting-place — earth  to  earth  —  dust  to  dust! 

Great  spirit !  thy  dream-life  here  is  past,  and  face  to  face 
with  truth,  "  rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail,"  for  thee 
the  illusion  has  vanished  !  Mayst  thou  also  know  the  ful- 
ness of  joy  in  the  unbroken  and  serene  activities  of  the  eter- 
nal Reality! 


134  MEMORIES    OE  A   MUSICAL   LIEE. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  PARSIFAL." 

THE  blood  of  God  !  —  mystic  symbol  of  Divine  life ; 
"  for  the  blood  is  the  life  thereof."  That  is  the  key- 
note of  "  Parsifal,"  the  Knight  of  the  Sangrail.  Wine 
is  the  ready  symbolical  vehicle  the  material  link  between  the 
Divine  and  human  life.  In  the  old  religions,  that  heightened 
consciousness,  that  intensity  of  feeling  produced  by  stimu- 
lant, was  thought  to  be  the  very  entering  in  of  the  "god,  " 
—  the  union  of  the  Divine  and  human  spirit ;  and  in  the 
Eleusinian  mysteries  the  "  sesame  " — -the  bread  of  Deme- 
ter,  the  earth  mother;  the  "  kykeon"  or  wine  of  Dionysos, 
the  vine  god  —  were  thus  sacramental. 

The  passionate  desire  to  approach  and  mingle  with  Deity 
is  the  oae  mystic  bond  common  to  all  religions  in  all  lands. 
It  is  the  "  cry  of  the  human  :  "  it  traverses  the  a^es  ;  it  ex- 
hausts many  symbols  and  transcends  all  forms. 

To  the  Christian  it  is  summed  up  in  the  "  Lord's 
Supper." 

The  mediaeval  legend  of  the  Sangrail  (real  or  royal 
blood)  is  the  most  poetic  and  pathetic  form  of  transubstan- 
tiation  ;  in  it  the  gross  materialism  of  the  Roman  Mass 
almost  ceases  to  be  repulsive  ;  it  possesses  the  true  legen- 
dary power  of  attraction  and  assimilation. 

As  the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table,  with  their  holy 
vows,  provided  mediaeval  chivalry  with  a  centre,  so  did  the 
Lord's  table,  with  its  Sangrail,  provide  mediaeval  religion 
with  its  central  attractive  point.  And  as  all  marvellous 
tales  of  knightly  heroism  circled  round  King  Arthur's 
table,  so  did  the  great  legends  embodying  the  Christian 
conceptions  of  sin,  punishment,  and  redemption  circle  round 
the  Sangrail  and  the  sacrifice  of  the  "  Mass." 

In  the  legends  of  "Parsifal  "  and  "Lohengrin,"  the  knightly 
and  religious  elements  are  welded  together.  This  is 
enough.  We  need  approach  "  Parsifal  "  with  no  deep  knowl- 


MEMORIES   OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE. 


1 35 


edge  of  the  various  sagas  made  use  of  by  Wagner  in  his 
drama.  His  disciples,  whilst  most  eager  to  trace  its 
various  elements  to  their  sources,  are  most  emphatic  in 
declaring  that  the  "  Parsifal "  drama,  so  intimately  true  to 
the  spirit  of  Roman  Catholicism,  is,  nevertheless,  a  new 
creation. 

Joseph  of  Arimathea  received  in  a  crystal  cup  the  blood 
of  Christ  as  it  flowed  from  the  spear-wound  made  by  the 
Roman  soldier.  The  cup  and  the  spear  were  committed  to 
Titurel,  who  became  a  holy  knight  and  head  of  a  sacred 
brotherhood  of  knights.  They  dwelt  in  the  Vizigoth  moun- 
tains of  Southern  Spain,  where,  amidst  impenetrable 
forests,  rose  the  legendary  palace  of  Montsalvat.  Here  they 
guarded  the  sacred  relics,  issuing  forth  at  times  from  their 
palatial  fortress,  like  Lohengrin,  to  fight  for  innocence  and 
right,  and  always  returning  to  renew  their  youth  and 
strength  by  the  celestial  contemplation  of  the  Sangrail,  and 
by  occasional  participation  in  the  holy  feast. 

Time  and  history  count  for  very  little  in  these  narratives. 
It  was  allowed,  however,  that  Titurel,  the  Chief,  had  grown 
extremely  aged  ;  but,  as  it  was  not  allowed  that  he  could  die 
in  the  presence  of  the  Sangrail,  he  seemed  to  have  been  laid 
in  a  kind  of  trance,  resting  in  an  open  tomb  beneath  the 
altar  of  the  Grail ;  and  whenever  the  cup  was  uncovered  his 
voice  might  be  heard  joining  in  the  celebration.  Mean- 
while, Amfortis,  his  son,  reigned  in  his  stead. 

Montsalvat,  with  its  pure,  contemplative,  but  active 
brotherhood,  and  its  mystic  cup,  thus  stands  out  as  the 
poetic  symbol  of  all  that  is  highest  and  best  in  mediaeval 
Christianity. 

The  note  of  the  wicked  world  —  Magic  for  Devotion, 
Sensuality  for  Worship  —  breaks  in  upon  our  vision,  as  the 
scene  changes  from  the  halls  of  Montsalvat  to  Klingsor's 
palace.  Klingsor,  an  impure  knight,  who  has  been  re- 
fused admittance  to  the  order  of  the  Sangrail,  enters  into 
a  compact  with  the  powers  of  evil ;  by  magic  acquires 
arts  of  diabolical  fascination  ;  fills  his  palace  and  gardens 
with  enchantments,  and  wages  bitter  war  against  the  holy 
knights,  with  a  view  of  corrupting  them,  and  ultimately,  it 
may  be,  of  acquiring  for  himself  the  Sangrail,  in  which 
all  power  is  believed  to  reside.  Many  knights  have  already 
succumbed  to  the  "insidious  arts"  of  Klingsor;    but  the 


^6  MEMORIES   OF  A    MUSICAL   LIFE. 

tragical  turning-point  of  the  "  Parsifal"  is  that  Amfortis,  him- 
self the  son  of  Titurel,  the  official  guardian  of  the  Grail,  in 
making  war  upon  the  magician,  took  with  him  the  sacred 
spear,  and  lost  it  to  Klingsor. 

It  came  about  in  this  way.  A  woman  of  unearthly 
loveliness  won  him  in  the  enchanted  bowers  adjoining  the 
evil  knight's  palace,  and  Klingsor,  seizing  the  holy  spear, 
thrust  it  into  Amfortis'  side,  inflicting  therewith  an  incura- 
ble wound.  The  brave  knight  Gurnemanz  dragged  his 
master  fainting  from  the  garden,  his  companions  of  the 
Sangrail  covering  their  retreat-  But,  returned  to  Montsalvat, 
the  unhappy  king  awakes  only  to  bewail  his  sin,  the  loss  of 
the  sacred  spear,  and  the  ceaseless  harrowing  smart  of  an 
incurable  wound.     But  who  is  Parsifal? 

The  smell  of  pine-woods  in  July !  The  long  avenue 
outside  the  city  of  Bayreuth,  that  leads  straight  up  the 
hill,  crowned  by  the  Wagner  Theatre,  a  noble  structure, 
architecturally  admirable,  severe,  simple,  but  exactly 
adapted  to  its  purpose  ....  I  join  the  stream  of 
pilgrims,  some  in  carriages,  others  on  foot.  As  we  ap- 
proach, a  clear  blast  of  trombones  and  brass,  from  the  terrace 
in  front  of  the  grand  entrance,  plays  out  the  Grail 
motive.  It  is  the  well-known  signal, — there  is  no  time 
to  be  lost.  I  enter  at  the  prescribed  door,  and  find  myself 
close  to  my  appointed  place.  Every  one  —  such  is  the 
admirable  arrangement  —  seems  to  do  likewise.  In  a  few 
minutes  about  one  thousand  persons  are  seated  without  con- 
fusion. The  theatre  is  darkened,  the  footlights  are  low- 
ered, the  prelude  begins. 

ACT    I. 

The  waves  of  sound  rise  from  the  shadowy  gulf  sunken 
between  the  audience  and  the  footlights.  Upon  the  sound 
ocean  of  "  wind  "  the  "  Take  eat,"  or  "  Love-feast  "  motive 
floats.  Presently  the  strings  pierce  through  it,  the  Spear 
motive  follows,  and  then,  full  of  heavy  pain,  "  Drink  ye  all 
of  this,"  followed  by  the  famous  Grail  motive,  —  an  old 
chorale  also  used  by  Mendelssohn  in  the  Reformation  Sym- 
phony.    Then  comes  the  noble  Faith  and  Love  theme. 

As  I  sit  in  the  low  light,  amidst  the  silent  throng,  and 


MEMORIES  OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE.  137 


listen,  I  need  no  interpreter.  I  am  being  placed  in  posses- 
sion of  the  emotional  keynotes  of  the  drama.  Every  subject 
is  hist  distinctly  enunciated,  and  then  all  are  wondrously 
blended  together.  There  is  the  pain  of  Sacrifice  —  the 
mental  agony,  the  bodily  torture  ;  there  are  the  alternate 
pauses  of  Sorrow  and  respite  from  sorrow  long  drawn 
out,  the  sharp  ache  of  Sin,  the  glimpses  of  unhallowed 
Joy,  the  strain  of  upward  Endeavor,  the  serene  peace  of 
Faith  and  Love,  crowned  by  the  blessed  Vision  of  the 
Grail.  'Tis  past.  The  prelude  melts  into  the  opening 
recitative. 

The  eyes  have  now  to  play  their  part.  The  curtain  rises, 
the  story  begins.  The  morning  breaks  slowly,  the  gray 
streaks  redden,  a  lovely  summer  landscape  lies  bathed  in 
primrose  light.  Under  the  shadow  of  a  noble  tree  the 
aged  knight  Gurnemanz  has  been  resting,  with  two  young 
attendants.  From  the  neighboring  halls  of  Montsalvat  the 
solemn  reveille  —  the  Grail  motive  —  rings  out,  and  all 
three  sink  on  their  knees  in  prayer.  The  sun  bursts  forth 
in  splendor,  as  the  hymn  rises  to  mingle  with  the  voices  of 
universal  nature.  The  waves  of  sound  well  up  and  fill  the 
soul  with  unspeakable  thankfulness  and  praise. 

The  talk  is  of  Amfortis,  the  king,  and  of  his  incurable 
wound.  A  wild  gallop,  a  rush  of  sound,  and  a  weird 
woman,  with  streaming  hair,  springs  towards  the  startled 
group.  She  bears  a  phial,  with  rare  balsam  from  the 
Arabian  shores.  It  is  for  the  king's  wound.  Who  is  the 
wild  horsewoman?  Kundry,  a  strange  creation,  a  being 
doomed  to  wander,  like  the  Wandering  Jew,  the  Wild  Hunts- 
man, or  Flying  Dutchman,  always  seeking  a  deliverance 
she  cannot  find;  Kundry,  who,  in  ages  gone  by,  met  the 
Saviour  on  the  road  to  Calvary,  and  derided  him.  Some 
said  she  was  Herodias'  daughter.  Now  filled  with  remorse, 
yet  weighted  with  sinful  longings,  she  selves  by  turns  the 
Knights  of  the  Grail,  then  falls  under  the  spell  of  Klingsor, 
the  evil  knight  sorcerer,  and  in  the  guise  of  an  enchantress 
is  compelled  by  him  to  seduce,  if  possible,  the  Knights  of 
the  Grail. 

Eternal  symbol  of  the  divided  allegiance  of  a  woman's 
soul  !  She  it  was  who,  under  the  sensual  spell,  as  an  incar- 
nation of  loveliness,  overcame  Amfortis,  and  she  it  is  now, 
who,  in  her  ardent  quest  for  salvation, —  changed  and  squalid 


138  MEMORIES    OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE. 

IB  appearance.  —  serves  the  Knights  of  the  Grail,  and  seeks 
to  heal  Amfortis'  wound  ! 

Xo  sooner  had  she  delivered  her  balsam  to  the  faithful 
Gurnemanz.  and  thrown  herself  exhausted  upon  the  grass, 
where  she  lies  gnawing  her  hair  morosely,  than  a  change 
in  the  sound  atmosphere,  which  never  ceases  to  be  generated 
in  the  mystic  orchestral  gulf,  presages  the  approach  of 
Amfortis. 

He  comes,  borne  on  a  litter,  to  his  morning  bath  in  the 
shining  lake  hard  bv.  Sharp  is  the  pain  of  the  wound  — 
weary  and  hopeless  is  the  king.  Through  the  Wound 
motive  comes  the  sweet  woodland  music  and  the  breath  of 
the  blessed  morning,  fragrant  with  flowers  and  fresh  with 
dew.  It  is  one  of  those  incomparable  bursts  of  woodland 
notes,  full  of  bird-song  and  the  happy  hum  of  insect  life  and 
rustling  of  netted  branches  and  waving  of  long-tasselled 
grass.  I  know  of  nothing  like  it  save  the  forest  music  in 
"  Siegfried." 

The  sick  king  listens,  and  remembers  words  of  hope  and 
comfort  that  fell  from  a  heavenly  voice  —  what  time  the 
glory  of  the   Grail  passed  :  — 

"  Wait  for  my  chosen  one, 
Guilele>s  and  innocent, 
Pity-enlightened." 

Thev  hand  him  the  phial  of  balsam,  and  presently,  whilst 
the  lovelv  forest  music  again  breaks  forth,  the  king  is 
carried  on  to  his  bath,  and  Kundry.  Gurnemanz,  and  the 
two  esquires  hold  the  stage. 

As  the  old  knight,  who  is  a  complete  repertory  of  facts 
connected  with  the  Grail  tradition,  unfolds  to  the  esquires 
the  nature  of  the  king's  wound,  the  sorceries  of  Klingsor. 
the  hope  of  deliverance  from  some  unknown  "  guileless 
one,"  a  sudden  cry  breaks  up  the  situation. 

A  white  swan,  pierced  bv  an  arrow,  nutters  dying  to 
the  ground.  It  is  the  swan  beloved  of  the  Grail  brother- 
hood, bird  of  fair  omen,  svmbol  of  spotless  purity.  The 
slaver  is  brought  in  between  two  knights.  —  a  stalwart  youth, 
fearless,  unabashed.  —  whilst  the  death  music  of  the  swan, 
the  slow  distilling  and  stiffening  of  its  life-blood,  is 
marvellouslv  rendered  bv  the  orchestra.  Conviction  of 
his   fault   comes   over  the    vouth   as    he  listens    to  the  re- 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL    LIFE 


[39 


proaches  of  Gurnemanz.  He  hangs  his  head,  ashamed  and 
penitent,  and  at  last,  with  a  sudden  passion  of  remorse, 
snaps  his  bow,  and  flings  it  aside.  The  swan  is  borne 
oft',  and  Parsifal  (the  "guileless  one,"  for  he  it  is),  with 
Gurnemanz  and  Kundry, — who  rouses  herself  and  surveys 
Parsifal  with  strange,  almost  savage  curiosity,  —  hold  the 
stage. 

In  this  scene  Kundry  tells  the  youth  more  than  he  cares 
to  hear  about  himself:  how  his  father,  Gamuret,  was  a 
great  knight  killed  in  battle  ;  how  his  mother,  Herzeleide 
(Heart's  Affliction),  fearing  a  like  fate  for  her  son,  brought 
him  up  in  a  lonely  forest ;  how  he  left  her  to  follow  a  troop 
of  knights  that  he  met  one  day  winding  through  the  forest 
glade,  and  being  led  on  and  on  in  pursuit  of  them  never 
overtook  them  and  never  returned  to  his  mother,  Heart's 
Affliction,  who  died  of  grief.  At  this  point  the  frantic 
youth  seizes  Kundry  by  the  throat  in  an  agony  of  rage  and 
grief,  but  is  held  back  by  Gurnemanz,  till,  worn  out  by  the 
violence  of  his  emotion,  he  faints  away,  and  is  gradually 
revived  by  Kundry  and  Gurnemanz. 

Suddenly  Kundry  rises  with  a  wild  look,  like  one  under 
a  spell.  Her  mood  of  service  is  over.  She  staggers  across 
the  stage;  she  can  hardly  keep  awake.  "Sleep,"  she 
mutters,  "  I  must  sleep  —  sleep  !  "  and  falls  down  in  one  of 
those  long  trances  which  apparently  lasted  for  months,  or 
years,  and  formed  the  transition  periods  between  her  mood 
of  Grail  service  and  the  Klingsor  slavery  into  which  she 
must  next  relapse  in  spite  of  herself. 

And  is  this  the"  guileless  one"  ?  This  wild  youth  who  slays 
the  fair  swan;  who  knows  not  his  own  name,  nor  whence 
he  comes,  nor  whither  he  goes,  nor  what  are  his  destinies? 
The  old  knight  eyes  him  curiouslv  ;  he  will  put  him  to  the 
test.  This  youth  had  seen  the  king  pass  once ;  he  had 
marked  his  pain.  Was  he  "  enlightened  by  pity  "  ?  Is  he 
the  appointed  deliverer?  The  old  knight  now  invites  him  to 
the  shrine  of  the  Grail.  "What  is  the  Grail?"  asks  the 
youth.  Truly  a  guileless,  innocent  one  ;  yet  a  brave  and 
pure  knight,  since  he  has  known  no  evil,  and  so  readily 
repents  of  a  fault  committed  in  ignorance. 

Gurnemanz  is  strangely  drawn  to  him.  He  shall  see  the 
Grail,  and  in  the  Holv  Palace,  what  time  the  mv-tic  light 
streams  forth  and  the  assembled  knights  how  themselves  in 


140 


MEMORIES   OE  A   MUSICAL   LIEE. 


prayer,  the  voice  which  comforted  Amfortis  shall  speak 
to  his  deliverer  and  bid  him  arise  and  heal  the  king. 

Gurnemanz  and  Parsifal  have  ceased  to  speak.  They 
stand  in  the  glowing  light  of  the  summer-land.  The  tide 
of  music  rolls  on  continuously,  but  sounds  more  strange 
and  dreamy. 

Is  it  a  cloud  passing  over  the  sky?  There  seems  to  be  a 
shuddering  in  the  branches  —  the  light  fades  upon  yonder 
sunny  woodlands  —  the  foreground  darkens  apace.  The 
whole  scene  is  moving,  but  so  slowly  that  it  seems  to  change 
like  a  dissolving  view.  I  see  the  two  figures  of  Gurnemanz 
and  Parsifal  moving  through  the  trees  ;  they  are  lost  behind 
vonder  rock.  They  emerge  further  off,  higher  up.  The 
air  grows  very  dim  ;  the  orchestra  peals  louder  and  louder. 
I  lose  the  two  in  the  deepening  twilight.  The  forest  is 
changing,  the  land  is  wild  and  mountainous.  Huge  galleries 
and  arcades,  rock-hewn,  loom  through  the  dim  forest;  but 
all  is  growing  dark.  I  listen  to  the  murmurs  of  the"  Grail," 
the  "  Spear,"  the  "  Pain,"  the  "  Love  and  Faith  "  motives, 
—  hollow  murmurs,  confused,  floating  out  of  the  depths  of 
lonely  caves.  Then  I  have  a  feeling  of  void  and  darkness, 
and  there  comes  a  sighing  as  of  a  soul  swooning  away  in  a 
trance,  and  a  vision  of  waste  places  and  wild  caverns  ;  and 
then  through  the  confused  dream  I  hear  the  solemn  boom 
of  mighty  bells,  only  muffled.  They  keep  time  as  to  some 
ghostly  march.  I  strain  my  eyes  into  the  thick  gloom  before 
me.     Is  it  a  rock,  or  forest,  or  palace? 

As  the  light  returns  slowly,  a  hall  of  more  than  Alhambra- 
like  splendor  opens  before  me.  My  eyes  are  riveted  on  the 
shining  pillars  of  variegated  marble,  the  tessellated  pave- 
ments, the  vaulted  roof  glowing  with  gold  and  color ; 
beyond,  arcades  of  agate  columns,  bathed  in  a  misty  moon- 
light air,  and  lost  in  a  bewildering  perspective  of  halls  and 
corridors. 

I  hear  the  falling  of  distant  water  in  marble  fonts ;  the 
large  bells  of  Montsalvat  peal  louder  and  louder,  and  to 
music  of  unimaginable  stateliness  the  knights  enter  in 
solemn  procession,  clad  in  the  blue  and  red  robes  of  the 
Grail,  and  take  their  seats  at  two  semicircular  tables  -which 
start  like  arms  to  the  right  and  left  of  the  holy  shrine. 
Beneath  it  lies  Titurel  entranced,  and  upon  it  is  presently 
deposited  the  sacred  treasures  of  the  Grail  itself. 


MEMORIES   OE  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  1 4 1 

As  the  wounded  King  Amfortis  is  borne  in,  the  assembled 
knights,  each  standing  in  his  place,  a  golden  cup  before 
him,  intone  the  Grail  motive,  which  is  taken  up  by  the 
entering  choruses  of  servitors  and  esquires  bearing  the  holy 
relics. 

Gurnemanz  is  seated  amongst  the  knights  ;  Parsifal  stands 
aside  and  looks  on  in  mute  astonishment,  "  a  guileless  one." 

As  the  Holy  Grail  is  set  down  on  the  altar  before  the 
wounded  king,  a  burst  of  heavenly  music  streams  from  the 
high  dome ;  voices  of  angels  intone  the  celestial  phrases, 
"  Take,  eat"  and  "  This  is  my  blood 7"  and  blend  them  with 
the  Faith  and  Love  motives.  As  the  choruses  die  away, 
the  voice  of  the  entranced  Titurel  is  heard  from  beneath  the 
altar  calling  upon  Amfortis,  his  son,  to  uncover  the  Grail 
that  he  may  find  refreshment  and  life  in  the  blessed  vision. 

Then  follows  a  terrible  struggle  in  the  breast  of  Amfortis. 
He,  sore  stricken  in  sin,  yet  guardian  of  the  Grail,  guilty 
among  the  guiltless,  oppressed  with  pain,  bowed  down  with 
shame,  craving  for  restoration,  o'erwhelmed  with  unworthi- 
ness,  yet  chosen  to  stand  and  minister  before  the  Lord  on 
behalf  of  his  saints  !  Pathetic  situation,  which  must  in  all 
times  repeat  itself  in  the  history  of  the  Church !  The  un- 
worthiness  of  the  minister  affects  not  the  validity  of  his 
consecrated  acts.  Yet  what  agony  of  mind  must  many  a 
priest  have  suffered,  himself  oppressed  with  sin  and  doubt, 
whilst  dispensing  the  means  of  grace,  and  acting  as  a 
minister  and  steward  of  the  mysteries. 

The  marvellous  piece  of  self-analysis  in  which  the 
conscience-stricken  king  bewails  his  lot  as  little  admits  of 
description  here  as  the  music  which  embodies  his  emotions. 

At  the  close  of  it  angel  voices  seem  floating  in  mid-air, 
sighing  the  mystic  words  :  — 

"Wait  for  my  chosen  one, 
Guileless  and  innocent, 
Pity-enlightened." 

And  immediately  afterwards  the  voice  of  Titurel,  like  one 
turning  restlessly  in  his  sleep,  comes  up  from  his  living 
tomb  beneath  the  altar:   "  Uncover  the  Grail!" 

With  trembling  hands  the  sick  king  raises  himself,  and 
with  a  great  effort  staggers  towards  the  shrine  ;    the  cover- 


142 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


ing  is  removed  —  he  takes  the  crystal  cup  —  he  raises  it  on 
high  —  the  blood  is  dark  —  the  light  begins  to  fade  in  the 
hall — a  mist  and  dimness  come  over  the  scene  ;  we  seem 
to  be  assisting  at  a  shadowy  ceremony  in  a  dream — the 
big  bells  are  tolling — the  heavenly  choirs  from  above  the 
dome,  which  is  now  bathed  in  twilight,  are  heard : 
''''Drink  ye  all  of  this  I"  Amfortis  raises  on  high  the 
crystal  vase ;  the  knights  fall  on  their  knees  in  prayer. 
Suddenly  a  faint  tremor  of  light  quivers  in  the  crystal  cup, 
then  the  blood  grows  ruby-red  for  a  moment.  Amfortis 
waves  it  to  and  fro,  the  knights  gaze  in  ecstatic  adora- 
tion.    Titurel's  voice  gathers  strength  in  his  tomb  :  — 

"  Celestial  rapture ! 
How  streams  the  light  upon  the  face  of  God  !  " 

The  light  fades  slowly  out  of  the  crystal  cup  ;  the  miracle 
is  accomplished.  The  blood  again  grows  dark  ;  the  light 
of  common  day  returns  to  the  halls  of  Montsalvat,  and  the 
knights  resume  their  seats,  to  rind  each  one  his  golden 
goblet  filled  with  wine. 

During  the  sacred  repast  which  follows,  the  brotherhood 
join  hands  and  embrace,  singing  :  — 

"  Blessed  are  they  that  believe  ; 
Blessed  are  they  that  love  !  " 

and  the  refrain  is  heard  again  far  up  in  the  heights,  re- 
echoed by  the  angelic  hosts. 

I  looked  round  upon  the  silent  audience  whilst  these 
astonishing  scenes  were  passing  before  me ;  the  whole 
assembly  was  motionless  ;  all  seemed  to  be  solemnized  by 
the  august  spectacle,  —  seemed  almost  to  share  in  the  devout 
contemplation  and  trance-like  worship  of  the  holy  knights. 
Every  thought  of  the  stage  had  vanished ;  nothing  was 
further  from  my  own  thoughts  than  play-acting.  I  was 
sitting  as  I  should  sit  at  an  oratorio,  in  devout  and  rapt 
contemplation.  Before  my  eyes  had  passed  a  symbolic 
vision  of  prayer  and  ecstacy,  flooding  the  soul  with  over- 
powering thoughts  of  the  Divine  Sacrifice  and  the  mystery 
of  unfathomable  love. 


MEMORIES    OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  \  43 

The  hall  of  Montsalvat  empties.  Gurnemanz  strides 
excitedly  up  to  Parsifal,  who  stands  stupefied  with  what  he 
has  seen  — 

"  Why  standest  thou  silent? 

Knowest  thou  what  thine  eyes  have  seen?" 

The  k'  guileless  one  "  shakes  his  head.  "  Nothing  but  a  fool !  " 
exclaims  Gurnemanz,  angrily ;  and,  seizing  Parsifal  by  the 
shoulder,  he  pushes  him  roughly  out  of  the  hall,  with  :  — 

"  Be  off!  look  after  thy  geese, 
And  henceforth  leave  our  swans  in  peace." 

The  Grail  vision  had,  then,  taught  the  "  guileless  one  " 
nothing.  He  could  not  see  his  mission  ;  he  was  as  yet  un- 
awakened  to  the  deeper  life  of  the  spirit :  though  blameless 
and  unsullied  he  was  still  the  "  natural  man."  Profound 
truth!  —  that  was  not  first  which  was  spiritual,  but  that 
which  was  natural :  before  Parsifal  wins  a  spiritual  triumph, 
he  must  be  spiritually  tried ;  his  inner  life  must  be 
deepened  and  developed,  else  he  can  never  read  aright  the 
message  of  the  Grail. 

The  life  of  God  in  the  spirit  comes  only  when  the  battle 
for  God  in  the  heart  has  been  fought  and  won. 

Fare  forth,  thou  "  guileless  one  "  !  thou  shalt  yet  add  to 
the  simplicity  of  the  dove  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent.  Thou 
art  innocent  because  ignorant ;  but  thou  shalt  be  weighed 
anon  in  the  balance  and  not  be  found  wanting ;  and  then 
shalt  thou  reconquer  the  holy  spear  lost  in  Sin,  rewon  in 
Purity  and  Sacrifice,  and  be  to  the  frail  Amfortis  the  chosen 
savior  for  whom  he  waits. 

The  foregoing  events  occupied  about  an  hour  and  a 
quarter.  When  the  curtain  fell  the  vast  audience  broke  up 
in  silence. 

The  air  outside  was  cool  and  balmy.  In  the  distance  lav 
the  city  of  Bayreuth,  with  the  tower  of  the  Alte  Schloss  and 
the  old  church  standing  up  gray  against  the  distant  Bavarian 
hills. 

All  around  us  lay  the  pine  woods,  broken  by  the  lawns 
and  avenues  that  encircle  the  theatre  and  embower  it  in  a 


H4 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


secluded  world  of  its  own  ;  even  as  the  Palace  of  the  Grail 
was  shut  oft' from  the  profane  world. 

Here,  indeed,  is  truly  the  Montsalvat  of  the  modern 
drama,  —  a  spot  purified  and  sacred  to  the  highest  aims  and 
noblest  manifestations  of  Art. 

In  about  an  hour  the  Spear  motive  was  the  signal  blown 
on  the  wind  instruments  outside,  and  I  took  my  seat  for  the 
second  act. 

ACT     II. 

A  restless,  passion-tossed  prelude.  The  "  Grail  "  subject 
distorted,  the  "Spear"  motive  thrust  in  discordant,  the 
"  Faith  and  Love  "  theme  fluttering  like  a  wounded  dove  in 
pain,  fierce  bursts  of  passion,  wild  shocks  of  uncontrolled 
misery,  mingling  with  the  k'  carnal  joy  "  music  of  Klingsor's 
magic  garden  and  the  shuddering  might  of  his  alchemy. 

The  great  magician,  Klingsor,  is  seen  alone  in  his  dun- 
geon palace,  — harsh  contrast  to  the  gorgeous  halls  of  Mont- 
salvat. Here  all  is  built  of  the  live  rock,  an  impenetrable 
fastness,  the  home  of  devilish  might  and  terrible  spells. 

Klingsor  is  aware  of  the  coming  struggle,  and  he  means 
to  be  ready  for  it.  He  owns  the  sacred  spear  wrested  from 
Amfortis  ;  he  even  aspires  to  win  the  Grail ;  he  knows  the 
"  guileless  one"  is  on  his  way  to  wrest  that  spear  from  him. 
His  only  hope  is  in  paralyzing  the  fool  by  his  enchantments 
as  he  paralyzed  Amfortis,  and  the  same  woman  will  serve 
his  turn. 

"  Kundry  !  "  The  time  is  come,  the  spells  are  woven  ; 
blue  vapors  rise,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  blue  vapors  the 
figure  of  the  still  sleeping  Kundry  is  seen.  She  wakes, 
trembling  violently  ;  she  knows  she  is  again  under  the  spell 
she  abhors,  —  the  spell  to  do  evil,  the  mission  to  corrupt. 
With  a  shuddering  scream  she  stands  before  her  tormentor, 
denying  his  power,  loathing  to  return  to  her  vile  mission, 
yet  returning,  as  with  a  bitter  crv  she  vanishes  from  his 
presence. 

Parsifal  has  invaded  Klingsor's  realm  ;  the  evil  knights 
have  fled  before  his  prowess,  wounded  and  in  disorder. 
Kundry  is  commissioned  to  meet  the  guileless  youth  in  the 
enchanted  garden,  and,  all  other  allurements  tailing,  to 
subdue  him  by  her  irresistible  fascinations  and  hand  him 
over  to  Klinsrsor. 


MEMORIES   OE  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  145 

In  a  moment  the  scenery  lifts,  and  a  garden  of  marvellous 
beauty  and  extent  lies  before  us.  The  flowers  are  all  of 
colossal  dimensions,  —  huge  roses  hang  in  tangled  festoons, 
the  cactus,  the  lily,  the  blue-bell,  creepers  and  orchids  of 
enormous  size  and  dazzling  color  wave  in  mid-air,  and 
climb  the  aromatic  trees. 

On  a  bright  hill  appears  Parsifal,  standing  bewildered  by 
the  light  and  loveliness  around  him.  Beautiful  girls,  dressed 
like  flowers,  and  hardly  distinguishable  from  them  at  first, 
rush  in,  bewailing  their  wounded  and  disabled  knights  ;  but 
on  seeing  Parsifal  fall  upon  their  new  prey,  and,  surround- 
ing him,  sing  verse  after  verse  of  the  loveliest  ballet  music, 
whilst  trying  to  embrace  him,  and  quarrelling  with  each 
other  for  the  privilege. 

About  that  wonderful  chorus  of  flower-girls  there  was 
just  a  suggestive  touch  of  the  Rhine  maidens'  singing.  It 
belonged  to  the  same  school  of  thought  and  feeling,  but 
was  freer,  wilder,  more  considerable,  and  altogether  more 
complex  and  wonderful  in  its  changes  and  in  the  marvellous 
confusion  in  which  it  breaks  up. 

The  "guileless  one  "  resists  these  charmers,  and  they  are 
just  about  to  leave  him  in  disgust,  when  the  roses  lilt  on 
one  side,  and,  stretched  on  a  mossy  bank  overhung  with 
flowers,  appears  a  woman  of  uneaithly  loveliness.  It  is 
Kundry  transformed,  and,  in  the  marvellous  duet  which 
follows  between  her  and  Parsifal,  a  perfectly  new  and 
original  type  of  love  duet  is  struck  out, — an  analysis  of 
character,  unique  in  musical  drama;  a  combination  of 
sentiment  and  a  situation  absolutely  novel,  which  could 
only  have  been  conceived  and  carried  out  by  a  creative 
genius  of  the  highest  order. 

First,  I  note  that  the  once  spell-bound  Kundry  is  devoted 
utterly  to  her  task  of  winning  Parsifal ;  into  this  she  throws 
all  the  intensity  of  her  wild  and  desperate  nature,  but  in 
turn  she  is  strangely  affected  by  the  spiritual  atmosphere  of 
the  "  guileless  one  "  ;  a  feeling  comes  over  her  in  the  midst 
of  her  witchcraft  passion,  that  he  is  in  some  way  to  be  her 
savior  too  ;  yet,  woman-like,  she  conceives  of  her  salvation 
as  possible  only  in  union  with  him.  Yet  was  this  the  very 
crime  to  which  Klingsor  would  drive  her  for  the  ruin  of 
Parsifal.  Strange  confusion  of  thought,  feeling,  aspiration, 
longing !  —  struggle     of    irreconcilable    elements  !        How 


1^6  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

shall  she  reconcile  them?  Her  intuition  fails  her  not,  and 
her  tact  triumphs.  She  will  win  by  stealing  his  love 
through  his  mother's  love.  A  mother's  love  is  holy,  —  that 
love  she  tells  him  of;  it  can  nevermore  be  his,  but  she 
will  replace  it ;  her  passion  shall  be  sanctified  by  it ; 
through  that  passion  she  has  sinned  ;  through  it  she,  too, 
shall  be  redeemed.  She  will  work  out  her  own  salvation 
by  the  very  spells  that  are  upon  her  for  evil.  He'  is  pure  ; 
he  shall  make  her  pure,  could  she  but  win  him  ;  both, 
by  the  might  of  such  pure  love,  Would  surely  be  delivered 
from  Klingsor,  the  corrupter,  the  tormentor.  Fatuous 
dream  !  How,  through  corruption,  win  incorruption  ?  How, 
through  indulgence,  win  peace  and  freedom  from  desire? 
It  is  the  old  cheat  of  the  senses,  —  Satan  appears  as  an  angel 
of  light.  The  thought  deludes  the  unhappy  Kundry  her- 
self; she  is  no  longer  consciously  working  for  Klingsor; 
she  really  believes  that  this  new  turn,  this  bias  given  to 
passion,  will  purify  both  her  and  the  guileless,  pure  fool 
she  seeks  to  subdue. 

Throughout  this  scene  Parsifal's  instinct  is  absolutely  true 
and  sure.  Everything  Kundry  says  about  his  mother, 
Herzeleide,  he  feels  ;  but  every  attempt  to  make  him  accept 
her  instead  he  resists.  Her  desperate  declamation  is  splen- 
did. Her  heart-rending  sense  of  misery  and  piteous  prayer 
for  salvation,  her  belief  that  before  her  is  her  savior  could 
she  but  win  him  to  her  will,  the  choking  fuiy  of  baffled 
passion,  the  steady  and  subtle  encroachments  made  whilst 
Parsifal  is  lost  in  a  meditative  dream,  the  burning  kiss  which 
recalls  him  to  himself,  the  fine  touch  by  which  this  kiss, 
whilst  arousing  in  him  the  stormiest  feelings,  causes  a  sharp 
pain,  as  of  Amfortis'  own  wound,  piercing  his  very  heart. 
All  this  is  realistic  if  you  will,  but  it  is  realism  raised  to  the 
sublime. 

Suddenly  Parsifal  springs  up,  hurls  the  enchantress 
from  him,  goes  forth  from  Klingsor's  realm.  She  is  baffled  ; 
she  knows  it;  for  a  moment  she  bars  his  passage,  then 
succumbs ;  the  might  of  sensuality  which  lost  Amfortis 
the  sacred  spear  has  been  met  ar.d  defeated  by  the  guile- 
less fool.  He  has  passed  from  innocence  to  knowledge 
in  his  interview  with  the  flower-girt  girls,  in  his  long 
converse  with  Kundry,  in  her  insidious  embrace,  in  her 
kiss ;  but  all  these  are  now  thrust  aside  ;  he  steps  forth  still 


MEMORIES   OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE.  147 

unconquered,  still  "  guileless,"  but  no  more  a  "  fool." 
The  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  has  come,  but  the  struggle 
is  already  passed. 

"  Yes,  sinner,  I  do  offer  thee  redemption,"  he  can  say  to 
Kundry  ;  "  not  in  thy  way,  but  in  thy  Lord  Christ's  way  of 
sacrifice  !  " 

But  the  desperate  creature,  wild  with  passion,  will  listen 
to  no  reason  ;  she  shouts  aloud  to  her  master,  and  Klingsor 
suddenly  appears,  poising  the  sacred  spear.  In  another 
moment  he  hurls  it  right  across  the  enchanted  garden  at 
Parsifal.  It  cannot  wound  the  guileless  and  pure  one  as  it 
wounded  the  sinful  Amfortis.  A  miracle  !  it  hangs  arrested 
in  the  air  above  Parsifal's  head ;  he  seizes  it ;  it  is  the 
sacred  talisman,  one  touch  of  which  will  heal  even  as  it 
inflicted  the  king's  deadly  wound. 

With  a  mighty  cry  and  the  shock  as  of  an  earthquake 
the  castle  of  Klingsor  falls  shattered  to  pieces,  the  garden 
withers  up  to  a  desert,  the  girls  who  have  rushed  in  lie 
about  amongst  the  fading  flowers,  themselves  withered  up 
and  dead.  Kundry  sinks  down  in  a  deathly  swoon,  whilst 
Parsifal  steps  over  a  ruined  wall  and  disappears,  saluting 
her  with  the  words,  kt  Thou  alone  knowest  when  we  shall 
meet  again  !  " 

The  long  shadows  were  stealing  over  the  hills  when  I 
came  out  at  the  second  pause.  Those  whom  I  met  and 
conversed  with  were  subdued  and  awed. 

As  the  instruments  played  out  the  Faith  and  Love  motive 
for  us  to  reenter,  the  mellow  sunshine  broke  once  more 
from  the  cloud-rack  over  city,  and  field,  and  forest,  before 
sinking  behind  the  long,  low  range  of  the  distant  hills. 

ACT    III. 

The  opening  prelude  to  the  third  and  last  act  seems  to 
warn  me  of  the  lapse  of  time.  The  music  is  full  of  pain  and 
restlessness,  —  the  pain  of  wretched  years  of  long  waiting 
for  a  deliverer  who  comes  not ;  the  restlessness  and  misery 
of  a  hope  deferred,  the  weariness  of  a  life  without  a  single 
joy.  The  motives,  discolored  as  it  were  by  grief,  work 
up  to  a  distorted  version  of  the  Grail  subject,  which  breaks 
off  with  a  cry  of  despair. 


14S  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

Is  the  Grail,  too,  then  turned  into  a  mocking  spirit  to 
the  unhappy  Amfortis  ? 

Relief  comes  to  us  with  the  lovely  scene  upon  which  the 
curtain  rises.  Again  the  wide  summer  land  lies  stretching 
away  over  sunlit  moor  and  woodland.  In  the  foreground 
wave  the  forest  trees,  and  I  hear  the  ripple  of  the  wood- 
land streams.  Invariably  throughout  the  drama,  in  the 
midst  of  all  human  pain  and  passion,  great  nature  is  there, 
peaceful,  harmonious  in  all  her  loveliest  moods ;  a  para- 
dise in  which  dwell  souls  who  make  of  her  their  own 
purgatory. 

In  yonder  aged  figure,  clad  in  the  Grail  pilgrim  robe,  I 
discern  Gurnemanz  ;  his  hair  is  white ;  he  stoops  with 
years  ;  a  rude  hut  is  hard  by.  Presently  a  groan  arrests  his 
attention,  moaning  as  of  a  human  thing  in  distress.  He 
clears  away  some  brushwood,  and  beneath  it  finds,  waking 
from  her  long  trance,  the  strange  figure  of  Kundry.  For 
how  many  years  has  she  slept  we  know  not.  Why  is  she 
now  recalled  to  life  ?  She  staggers  to  her  feet ;  we  see  that 
she,  too,  is  in  a  pilgrim  garb,  with  a  rope  girding  her  dress 
of  coarse  brown  serge.  "  Service  !  service  !  "  she  mutters, 
and,  seizing  a  pitcher,  moves  mechanically  to  fill  it  at  the 
well,  then  totters  but  half  awake  into  the  wooden  hut. 
The  forest  music  breaks  forth,  —  the  hum  of  happy  insect 
life,  the  song  of  wild  birds.  All  seems  to  pass  as  in  a  vis- 
ion, when  suddenly  enters  a  knight  clad  in  black  armor 
from  top  to  toe. 

The  two  eye  him  curiously,  and  Gurnemanz,  approaching, 
bids  him  lay  aside  his  armor  and  his  weapons.  He  carries 
a  long  spear.  In  silence  the  knight  unhelms,  and,  sticking 
the  spear  into  the  ground,  kneels  before  it,  and  remains 
lost  in  devotional  contemplation.  The  Spear  and  Grail 
motives  mingle  together  in  the  full  tide  of  orchestral  sounds 
carrying  on  the  emotional  undercurrent  of  the  drama.  The 
knight  is  soon  recognized  by  both  as  the  long-lost  and  dis- 
carded Parsifal. 

The  "  guileless  one  "  has  learned  wisdom,  and  discovered 
his  mission  ;  he  knows  now  that  he  bears  the  spear  which 
is  to  heal  the  king's  grievous  wound,  and  that  he  himself  is 
appointed  his  successor.  Through  long  strife,  and  trial,  and 
pain  he  seems  to  have  grown  into  something  of  Christ's  own 
likeness.     Not  all  at  once,  but  at  last  he  has  found  the  path. 


MEMORIES  OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE. 


149 


He  returns  to  bear  salvation  and  pardon  both  to  Kundry  and 
the  wretched  king,  Amfortis. 

The  full  music  flows  on  whilst  Gurnemanz  relates  how 
the  knights  have  all  grown  weak  and  aged,  deprived  of  the 
vision  and  sustenance  of  the  Holy  Grail,  whilst  the  long- 
entranced  Titurel  is  at  last  dead. 

At  this  news  Parsifal,  overcome  with  grief,  swoons  away, 
and  Gurnemanz  and  Kundry  loosen  his  armor,  and  sprinkle 
him  with  water  from  the  holy  spring.  Underneath  his 
black  suit   of  mail  he  appears   clad    in  a  long  white  tunic. 

The  grouping  is  here  admirable  :  Gurnemanz  is  in  the 
Templar's  red  and  blue  robe ;  Parsifal  in  white,  his  auburn 
hair  parted  in  front,  and  flowing  down  in  ringlets  on  either 
side,  recalls  Leonardo's  favorite  conception  of  the  Saviour's 
head  ;  and,  indeed,  from  this  point  Parsifal  becomes  a  kind 
of  symbolic  reflection  of  the  Lord  Himself.  Kundry,  sub- 
dued and  awed,  lies  weeping  at  his  feet;  he  lifts  his  hands 
to  bless  her  with  infinite  pity.  She  washes  his  feet,  and 
dries  them  with  the  hairs  of  her  head.  It  is  a  bold  stroke  ; 
but  the  voices  of  nature,  the  murmur  of  the  summer  woods, 
come  with  an  infinite  healing,  tenderness,  and  pity,  and  the 
act  is  seen  to  be  symbolical  of  the  pure  devotion  of  a  sinful 
creature  redeemed  from  sin.  Peace  has  at  last  entered  into 
that  wild  and  troubled  heart,  and  restless  Kundry,  delivered 
from  Klingsor's  spell,  receives  the  sprinkling  of  baptismal 
water  at  the  hands  of  Parsifal. 

The  great  spaces  of  silence  in  the  dialogue,  broken  now 
by  a  few  sentences  from  Parsifal,  now  from  Gurnemanz,  are 
more  eloquent  than  many  words.  The  tidal  music  flows 
on  in  a  ceaseless  stream  of  changing  harmonies,  returning 
constantly  to  the  sweet  and  slumberous  sound  of  the  summer 
land,  full  of  teeming  life  and  glowing  happiness. 

Then  Gurnemanz  takes  up  his  parable.  It  is  the  blessed 
Good  Friday  on  which  our  dear  Lord  suffered.  The  Love 
and  Faith  phrases  are  chimed  forth,  the  pain-notesof  the  Cross 
agony  are  sounded  and  pass,  the  Grail  motive  seems  to 
swoon  away  in  descending  harmonies,  sinking  into  the 
woodland  voices  of  universal  nature, —  that  trespass-pardoned 
nature  that  now  seems  waking  to  the  day  of  her  glory  and 
innocence. 

In  that  solemn  moment  Parsifal  bends  over  the  subdued 


MEMORIES   OF  A    MUSICAL   LIFE. 


and  humbled  Kundry,  and  kisses  her  softly  on  the  brow ; 
her  wild  kiss  in  the  garden  had  kindled  in  him  fierce  fire, 
mingled  with  the  bitter  wound-pain  ;  his  is  the  seal  of  her 
eternal  pardon  and  peace. 

In  the  distance  the  great  bells  of  Montsalvat  are  now 
heard  booming  solemnly ;  the  air  darkens,  the  light  fades 
out,  the  slow  motion  of  all  the  scenery  recommences.  Again 
I  hear  the  wild  cave  music,  strange  and  hollow  sounding ; 
the  three  move  on  as  in  a  dream,  and  are  soon  lost  in  the 
deep  shadows ;  and  through  all,  louder  and  louder,  boom 
the  heavy  bells  of  Montsalvat,  until  the  stage  brightens, 
and  we  find  ourselves  once  more  in  the  vast  Alhambra-like 
hall  of  the  knights. 

For  the  last  time  Amfortis  is  borne  in,  and  the  brother- 
hood of  the  Grail  form  the  procession  bearing  the  sacred 
relics,  which  are  deposited  before  him. 

The  king,  in  great  agony  and  despair,  bewails  the  death 
of  his  father  and  his  own  backsliding.  With  failing,  but 
desperate,  energy  he  harangues  the  assembled  knights,  and, 
tottering  forward,  beseeches  them  to  free  him  from  his 
misery  and  sin-stained  life,  and  thrust  their  swords  deep 
into  his  wounded  side.  At  this  moment  Gurnemanz,  ac- 
companied by  Parsifal  and  Kundry,  enter.  Parsifal  steps 
forward  with  the  sacred  spear,  now  at  length  to  be  restored 
to  the  knights.  He  touches  the  side  of  Amfortis,  the  wound 
is  healed,  and  as  he  raises  the  spear  on  high  the  point  is 
seen,  glowing  with  the  crimson  glory  of  the  Grail.  Then, 
stepping  up  to  the  shrine,  Parsifal  takes  the  crystal  cup,  the 
dark  blood  glows  bright  crimson  as  he  holds  it  on  high, 
and  at  that  moment,  whilst  all  fall  on  their  knees,  and 
celestial  music  ("Drink  ye  all  of  this")  floats  in  the  upper 
air,  Kundry  falls  back  dying,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  blessed 
Grail.  A  white  dove  descends  and  hovers  for  a  moment, 
poised  in  mid-air  above  the  glowing  cup.  A  soft  chorus  of 
angels  seems  to  die  away  in  the  clouds  beyond  the  golden 
dome  :  — 

"Marvellous  mercy! 
Victorious  Saviour ! " 

Words  can  add  nothing  to  the  completeness  of  the  drama, 
and  no  words   can  give  any  idea  of  the  splendor  and  com- 


MEMORIES   OE  A  MUSICAL  LIFE. 


*5i 


plexity  of  that  sound  ocean   upon  which  the  drama  floats 
from  beginning  to  end. 

The  enemies  of  the  Grail  are  destroyed  or  subdued,  the 
wound  they  have  inflicted  is  healed,  the  prey  they  claimed 
is  rescued ;  the  pure  and  blameless  Parsifal  becomes  the 
consecrated  head  of  the  holy  brotherhood,  and  the  beatific 
vision  of  God's  eternal  love  and  Real  Presence  is  restored  to 
the  Knights  of  the  Sangrail. 

When  I  came  out  of  the  theatre,  at  the  end  of  the  third 
and  last  act,  it  was  ten  o'clock. 

The  wind  was  stirring  in  the  fir  trees,  the  stars  gleamed 
out  fitfully  through  a  sky  across  which  the  clouds  were 
hurrying  wildly,  but  the  moon  rose  low  and  large  beyond 
the  shadowy  hills,  and  bathed  the  misty  valleys  with  a  mild 
and  golden  radiance  as  of  some  celestial  dawn. 

When  the  curtain  fell  on  the  last  performance  of"  Par- 
sifal," at  Bayreuth,  which,  on  the  30th  of  July,  1SS2,  brought 
the  celebration  month  to  a  close,  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
audience  found  full  vent  in  applause.  The  curtain  was 
once  lifted ;  but  no  calls  would  induce  the  performers  to 
appear  a  second  time  or  receive  any  individual  homage. 
This  is  entirely  in  accordance  with  the  tone  of  these  excep- 
tional representations.  On  each  occasion  the  only  applause 
permitted  was  at  the  end  of  the  drama,  and  throughout  not 
a  single  actor  answered  to  a  call  or  received  any  personal 
tribute. 

Behind  the  scenes  there  occurred  a  touching  incident. 
The  banker  Gross  led  Wagner's  children  up  to  the  assembled 
actors,  and,  in  the  name  of  their  dead  father,  thanked  the 
assembly  for  the  care  and  labor  of  love  expended  by  each 
and  all  in  producing  the  last  work  of  the  great  dead  master. 
Siegfried,  Wagner's  son,  thirteen  years  old,  then,  in  a  few 
simple  words,  stifled  with  sobs,  thanked  the  actors  person- 
ally, and  all  the  children  shook  hands  with  them.  The 
King  of  Bavaria  charged  himself,  upon  Wagner's  death, 
with  the  education  of  his  son. 


l52 


MEMORIES  OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    RING    OF    THE    NIBELUNG. 

/.  —  Rheingold. 

THE  heat  at  Bayreuth  (August,  1876)  was  intense. 
The  Emperor  of  Germany,  who  attended  some  of  the 
performances,  expressed  his  astonishment  at  the  endur- 
ance of  the  orchestra,  who  had  to  work  by  a  great  power 
of  gas,  sunk  in  a  pit  beneath  the  stage. 

"  I  should  just  like,"  said  his  Imperial  Majesty,  "  to  go 
down  below  and  see  where  my  Kapellmeister  Richter 
sweats,"  —  and  he  went. 

Notwithstanding  the  excessively  sultry  weather,  a  vast 
company  of  Art  Pilgrims  ascended  the  hill  outside  the  city, 
and  took  their  seats  nearly  every  day  in  Wagner's  theatre 
for  a  month. 

As  I  contemplate  Bayreuth,  in  that  same  month  of  August, 
1876,  I  perceive  the  whole  city  to  be  given  over  to  a  kind 
of  idolatry  of  Wagner.  The  town  is  hung  with  wreaths 
and  flags ;  in  the  shops  nothing  but  Wagner  portraits, 
busts,  medals  of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  Wagner's  works,  "  Wag- 
ner's Life  and  Genius,"  and  an  immense  German  and  French 
literature  on  the  Nibelungen  Saga. 

The  performance  of  the  "Rheingold"  will  live  long  in 
my  memory  as  the  extreme  realization  of  weird  beauty 
steeped  in  atmosphere  such  as  may  be,  in  some  other  planet, 
flushed  with  sunset  or  moonrise.  This  music  is  like  a  land 
of  dreams,  into  which  the  spirit  breaks  at  times,  and,  hurry- 
ing back  a  million  of  years,  discovers,  on  the  surface  of  far- 
off' seas,  or  dim  caverns,  the  light  that  has  long  since  gone 
out  forever.  The  elemental  prelude  of  deep  and  slumberous 
sound  wafts  us  away  from  all  account  of  time  and  space  of 
the  present.  The  vast  hall,  full  of  silent  human  beings,  has 
been  touched  by  the  magician's  wand.  All  grows  dark,  and 
the   dim    gray-green  depths   of  the   Rhine  alone    become 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


r53 


visible.  We  strain  our  eyes  into  the  dimness,  and  are  aware 
of  the  deep  moving  of  the  Rhine  water.  The  three  Rhine 
daughters  grow  visible,  swimming  midwater,  swimming 
and  singing,  guardians  of  the  Rheingold.  What  unearthly, 
unhuman,  magical  snatches  of  sweetest  song  !  There  is  at 
last  realized  the  creature  of  legend,  the  Undine  at  once  more 
and  less  than  human. 

The  hideous  King  of  the  Undergrounds,  or  Nibelungen, 
sits  watching  these  lovely  water-maidens ;  he  courts  them 
in  vain.  The  orchestra  weaves  on  its  divine  Rhine  music, 
without  which  we  almost  feel  the  scene  must  vanish.  The 
soft  cries  and  unearthly  but  musical  laughter  of  the  Undines, 
swimming  ceaselessly,  begin  to  give  us  a  strange  feeling  of 
limited,  monotonous  life,  pointing  subtilely  to  the  difference 
between  such  natures  and  our  own.  But  they,  too,  are 
waiting  for  something.  This  dim  green  water  is  growing 
oppressive.  We  feel  ourselves  immersed  in  its  depths.  At 
first  it  was  a  dream  scene  of  exquisite  beauty  ;  now  it  is 
almost  a  prison  ;  in  another  moment  we  should  struggle  to 
be  free ;  but  suddenly  the  Rheingold  begins  to  brighten. 
A  shaft  of  radiance  strikes  through  the  water.  The  Un- 
dines scream  with  joy.  The  Underground  King,  Alberich, 
blinks  with  astonishment.  Then  through  the  whole  depth 
of  the  Rhine  streams  an  electric  light,  glowing  upon  a 
distant  rock,  dimmed  to  softest  yellow  only  by  the  water. 
"  Rheingold  !  Rheingold  !  "  a  wild  shout  arises  — joy  of  the 
Rhine  daughters !  Haydn  has  produced  the  effect  of  light 
in  the  "•Creation"  by  a  great  burst  of  sound  :  "  And  there  was 
Light ! !  "  But,  sublime  as  is  that  one  chord  on  Light,  the 
effect  here  is  far  more  subtle.  We  have  been  kept  in  dark 
water  for  half  an  hour.  The  whole  system  is  made  to  pine 
and  cry  out  for  light.  It  comes  at  last  —  the  light  of  the 
Rheingold  !  Every  fibre  in  the  body  quivers  with  it.  It  is 
as  oxygen  to  the  lungs.  The  eye  and  whole  nervous  system 
drink  it  in.  We  could  shout  like  children  with  the  Rhine 
girls  over  the  joy  of  the  Rheingold  ! 

The  whole  of  this  water-scene  is  of  indescribable  beauty  and 
without  a  trace  of  vulgar  pantomimic  effect.  A  lesser  man 
would  have  made  the  Rhine  water  lighter  at  first.  As  it  is, 
for  some  seconds  after  the  curtain  rises  we  can  hardly  see  any- 
thing. Slowly  the  eye  discerns  the  floating  women  ;  but 
we  still  follow  them  chiefly  by  their  voices.     Alberich  is 


i54 


MEMORIES  OF  A  MUSICAL   LIFE. 


hardly  visible  ;  the  music  itself  seems  to  keep  down  the 
light ;  but  then  the  dawn  of  splendor  of  the  Rheingold  ! 
That  explains  all ;  the  effect  is  consummate.  Wagner,  it  is 
evident,  has  superintended  every  detail. 

I  will  here  briefly  allude  to  the  plot  of  the  "  Rheingold." 
How  Alberich,  the  King  of  the  Undergrounds,  renounces 
the  love  of  the  Rhine  girls  to  clutch  the  gold.  How  he 
leaves  the  Rhine  dark,  and  flies  with  his  treasure  to  his 
own  underground  caverns,  there  to  maltreat  his  wretched 
hordes  of  slaves,  and  compel  them  to  turn  the  Rheingold 
into  sumptuous  vessels,  amongst  them  a  magic  helmet  and 
a  ring  whose  wearer  can  change  himself  at  will  into  any- 
thing. How  the  gods  meanwhile  have  been  bribing  the 
giants  with  the  promise  of  the  beautiful  Freia,  their  sister,  to 
build  them  their  Walhalla  palace.  How  the  giants  on  the 
completion  of  the  palace  claim  Freia,  and  only  give  her 
up  upon  the  gods  extorting  the  Rheingold  from  Alberich 
and  his  undergrounds  and  paying  it  over  to  the  monstrous 
architects.  How  at  last  the  gods,  with  Freia,  go  over  to  the 
Rainbow  bridge  into  the  Walhalla  to  the  sound  of  heavenly 
music,  whilst  upon  the  ambrosial  air  comes  from  afar  the 
fitful  wail  of  the  Rhine  daughters  :  — 

"  Rheingold ! 
Clear  and  pure, 
Show  thy  glory  in  the  depths, 
There  alone  is  Truth  and  Trust, 

False  and  faithless  all  above, 
Who  rejoice !  " 

All  this  the  reader  may  possibly  be  familiar  with.  To 
dwell  upon  each  scene  is  here  impossible. 

The  "  Rheingold"  lasts  for  two  hours  and  a  half  at  a 
stretch,  during  which  time  there  is  no  pause  in  the  music, 
but  there  is  also  no  sign  of  fatigue  in  the  audience,  who  sit 
in  rapt  attention  to  the  close. 

II.  —  Walkure. 

With  the  "Walkure,"  or  Warrior  Daughters  of  god 
Wotan  (Wodin),  begin  the  famous  three  da}Ts  to  which  the 
"  Rheingold,"  described  in  my  last,  was  the  introduction. 
The   god   Wotan    in   his   earthly   wanderings   became  the 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


*55 


father  by  a  mortal  woman  of  Siegmund  and  Sieglinde. 
Upon  the  interest  of  one  of  the  Walkiire,  Briinnhilde,  in 
this  couple,  and  her  final  sacrifice  of  Virgin  deity  in  their 
cause,  this  next  drama,  in  three  acts,  turns. 

The  curtain  rises.  A  wild  cabin,  into  which  out  of  the 
storm  enters  Siegmund,  throws  himself,  dead  with  fatigue, 
before  a  rude  fire,  and  sleeps.  In  steals  Sieglinde,  his 
sister,  the  forced  wife  of  Hunding,  a  savage  hunter.  Thus 
brother  and  sister,  separated  from  the  cradle,  meet  unknown 
to  each  other.  We  are  at  once  completely  outside  all  con- 
ventional moralities,  — in  an  age  and  faerie  sphere  in  which 
human  passion  has  to  be  contemplated  apart  from  all  civil- 
ized conditions.  We  thus  follow  breathlessly,  without 
shock,  the  inexorable  development  of  the  various  phases  of 
recognition,  self-abandonment,  confession,  and  ecstasy  which 
follow.  The  wild  music  flowing  to  the  wild  life  of  the 
wandering  Siegmund,  as  he  pours  it  all  out  to  his  new  friend 
and  protectress,  who  revives  him  with  a  cooling  draught, 
consoles  him,  and  already  claims  him  as  her  deliverer  ;  the 
entrance  of  Hunding  ;  the  fight  between  him  and  Siegmund, 
which  is  to  take  place  on  the  morrow  ;  the  sleeping  potion 
administered  to  him  by  Sieglinde,  and  the  long  scene  at 
night,  where  she  steals  out,  all  in  white,  to  Siegmund,  — 
these  are  graphic  and  awe-inspiring  situations  ;  the  moon 
spreads  through  the  room,  and  the  fire  dies,  and  through  the 
open  door  are  seen  the  fair,  moon-lit  woods,  and  all  is 
peace,  — this  the  reader  must  imagine  for  himself.  Nothing 
more  searching  in  delineation  of  passion  was  ever  con- 
ceived than  this  scene  between  lovers  about  to  risk  all, 
with  fate  overhanging  them,  and  hearts  filled  alternately 
with  the  pain  of  dread  forebodings  and  an  inextinguishable 
love. 

As  the  last  spark  on  the  hearth  dies  the  music  becomes 
flowing  and  deep,  like  a  broadening  river.  A  strange  red 
light  —  the  light  of  Wotan  —  falls  on  the  giant  oak-tree, 
showing  the  hilt  of  a  sword  plunged  in  there  by  a  mysteri- 
ous stranger.  He  who  could  draw  it  should  alone  free 
Sieglinde  from  her  brutal  husband.  Siegmund  rises  and 
draws  it,  amidst  a  great  burst  of  triumphant  sound.  This, 
on  the  morrow,  should  give  him  victory  over  the  coarse 
Hunding,  for  the  sword  is  Woton's  own,  hidden  there  for 
his  son  Siegmund.     The  deep  wealth  of  sound  upon  which 


156  MEMORIES  OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

the  lovers  are  now  buoyed  up  as  they  fall  into  each  other's 
arms  is  like  the  mingling  of  oceans  and  rivers  and  clouds  ; 
and  the  strong,  terrible  chords,  to  which  the  curtain  again 
falls,  are  as  the  might  of  resistless  love,  hurrying  to  its  fate- 
ful close. 

The  second  act  reveals  to  us  the  wild  Briinnhilde  —  War 
Walkiire.  With  spear  in  hand  she  scales  the  rocks ;  the 
clouds  are  about  her ;  she  shouts  to  her  companions,  and 
her  voice  mingles  with  the  winds.  As  she  mounts  each 
crag  her  notes  rise  higher  and  higher,  —  a  melody  of  be- 
witching, boisterous  wildness.  How  Wotan  bids  the  War 
Walkiire  defend  his  favorite  Siegmund  in  the  coming  duel 
with  Hunding  ;  how  Fricka,  his  jealous  wife,  burns  for  the 
death  of  Siegmund,  the  mortal  bastard  ;  how  the  god  gives 
in  weakly,  and  bids  Briinnhilde  to  destroy  him  ;  how  Briinn- 
hilde, a  dear,  good  creature,  protests,  and  goes  at  last  to  her 
mission,  clad  in  mail  and  scarlet,  with  a  heavy  heart,  — 
must  be  told  in  few  words.  From  this  moment  to  the  end 
of  the  act  the  excitement,  without  pause,  goes  on,  changing 
in  form,  but  ever  increasing.  Now  the  flying  lovers  rush 
on  to  the  rocky  stage ;  the  sound  of  Hunding's  horn,  the 
cry  of  his  dogs,  is  in  their  ears  ;  then  all  is  again  ecstasy, 
until  Sieglinde  breaks  out  in  a  strange  scene  of  passionate 
remorse  at  having  been  the  wife  of  an  unloved  man.  Her 
intense  love  for  Siegmund  makes  her  past  life  seem  too  vile. 
But  hark  ! — and  the  sound  of  dogs  and  horns,  the  rushing 
of  wind  and  crashing  of  branches,  swells  in  the  orchestra, 
and  Sieglinde  faints,  and  is  laid  resting  on  a  rock.  Then  a 
passage  of  unspeakable  solemnitv  occurs  with  the  reentrance 
of  Briinnhilde.  She  stands  before  Siegmund.  —  come  on 
her  fatal  errand.  — and  the  music  grows  sweet  and  solemn, 
with  the  majestic  Wotan  "  motif;  "  she  tells  the  hero  that 
whoever  looks  on  her  must  shortly  die ;  that  she  takes  the 
wrarrior  to  Walhalla,  but  that  he  must  fall  in  fight.  Meas- 
ured and  slow  as  fate,  yet  strangely  full  of  tenderness,  is 
her  terrible  message.  With  knightly  calm  he  listens,  and 
at  last,  with  a  burst  of  love  which  shakes  Bviinnhilde's  own 
heart,  he  declares  that  he  will  kill  himself  and  his  beloved, 
but  they  shall  not  be  divided.  The  Walkiire,  at  last  over- 
come, and  faithless  to  Wotan's  command,  promises  protec- 
tion. 

But  the  orchestra  resumes  the  stormy  music  ;  the  battle- 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


157 


hour  approaches  ;  clouds  hurry  restlessly  through  the  sky  ; 
Hunding  is  close  at  hand  amongst  the  high  crags  yonder. 
With  a  burning  kiss  the  hero  leaves  Sieglinde,  and  hurries 
to  meet  the  foe.  She  rises,  all  is  wild,  and  the  air  grows 
stormy  and  dark  around  her;  she  calls  Siegmund  wildly, 
and  rushes  forward  ;  but  too  late,  she  never  sees  him  alive 
again.  On  the  topmost  rocks  we  hear,  behind  the  clouds, 
the  warriors  shouting  and  the  arms  clashing.  It  is  a  fearful 
moment,  and  the  orchestra  is  taxed  to  the  uttermost.  The 
clouds  part  for  a  moment  only  ;  the  bright  Briinnhilde  is 
seen  floating  above  her  hero,  clad  in  shining  steel  and  crim- 
son. In  vain  !  Wotan  himself  appears,  and  shatters  Sieg- 
mund's  magic  sword  with  his  spear.  The  hero  is  slain. 
The  clouds  now  roll  aside ;  in  terrible  red  smoke  and 
blinding  light  the  angry  god  stands  out.  At  a  word  Hund- 
ing, the  coarse  hunter,  falls  dead  before  him  ;  but  the  god 
turns  upon  poor  Briinnhilde,  and,  as  the  curtain  falls,  curses 
her  for  her  disobedience. 

The  storm  music  and  the  thunder  roll  away  ;  and,  after  a 
tension  probably  unexampled  in  dramatic  art,  we  issue 
forth  into  the  now  cool  and  darkened  air ;  eighteen  hundred 
people  disperse  upon  the  hill  and  roadside,  and  discuss  for 
an  hour  in  the  temporary  cafes  their  experiences.  Liszt  I 
found  with  his  daughter,  Madame  Wagner,  and  other 
ladies,  chatting  to  a  group.  The  prince  and  poet  of  the 
Romantic  School  has  a  long  cigar  in  his  mouth  and  a  large 
bock  of  beer  in  his  hand.  People  hurry  up  and  are  intro- 
duced at  times ;  he  receives  all  cordially  with  "  Schon  ! 
Schon  !  "  I  remember  that  Wagner  was  loudly  called  for 
at  the  end  of  the  second  act,  but  did  not  appear.  But, 
oddly  enough,  before  the  last  act,  when  the  theatre  was 
half  empty,  he  came  on  the  stage  and  bowed,  and  was 
cheered  wildly. 

The  last  act  opens  with  a  scenic  effect  which  it  was 
anticipated  would  tax  any  theatre  to  render  adequately. 
The  chorus  of  the  Walkiire  on  the  rocks,  half  hidden  with 
clouds,  as  they  wait  for  Briinnhilde,  their  Amazon  sister, 
unconscious  of  her  catastrophe,  is  quite  unparalleled  in  its 
wild  and  spontaneous  splendor.  The  cries  and  shouts  are 
hurled  from  rock  to  rock  with  waving  of  arms  and  clashing 
of  spears  and  shields.  The  troubled  sky  is  in  ceaseless 
motion,  the  air  is  filled  with  boisterous  elemental  mirth,  and 


158  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 

the  bursting  cries  of  unbridled  animal  spirits  are,  somehow, 
all  woven  into  a  kind  of  chorus,  resting  upon  such  an  ocean 
of  orchestral  sound  as  has  certainly  never  before  been  heard 
or  conceived  by  mortals.  Amid  thunder  and  flashes  Briinn- 
hilde,  dragging  poor,  rescued  Sieglinde,  now  suddenly 
appears  on  the  stage,  and  what  follows  must  be  merely 
summarized.  The  despair  of  Sieglinde  ;  the  devotion  of 
the  tender,  reckless  Briinnhilde,  inconceivably  touching 
symbol  of  the  devotion  which  good  women  are  capable  of 
for  each  other  ;  the  wild  recrudescence  of  joy  which  seizes 
Sieglinde  when  Briinnhilde  hands  to  her,  with  fervid  song, 
the  fragments  of  Siegmund's  magic  sword,  —  all  that  is  left 
of  him  now,  yet  enough  for  vengeance,  enough  to  win  the 
Rheingold  from  the  Giant  Fafner,  enough  for  the  hero 
Sieglinde  is  about  to  bear.  She  is  then  hurried  away  to 
safety,  and,  with  the  appropriate  recurring  strains  in  the 
orchestra,  the  god  Wotan  at  last  approaches. 

The  favorite  Walkiire,  deprived  of  her  arms,  comes  forth 
to  learn  the  doom  of  her  disobedience.  Some  divine 
necessity  compels  her  banishment  from  Walhalla,  and  infi- 
nitely subtle  and  complex  are  the  music  and  sentiment  which 
follow.  Briinnhilde  has  been  drawn  earthwards  by  human 
sympathy,  —  she  will  become  whole  woman  by-and-by, 
who  has  thus  stooped  to  human  affection,  —  but  earthly  love 
shall  destroy  her  divinity  ;  and,  meanwhile,  parted  forever 
from  her  sisters  and  her  father,  who  still  love  her  fondly, 
she  shall  sleep  amid  wild  and  lonely  rocks  encircled 
with  fire,  waiting  for  the  lover  who,  dauntless,  shall  find 
her  and  wake  her  there,  and  make  her  his  earthly  bride. 

The  flight  of  the  sister  Walkiire  in  the  storm,  with  a  wild 
chorus  full  of  despairing  screams,  is  followed  by  a  pro- 
tracted and  inconceivably  touching  parting  between  the 
resigned  Briinnhilde  and  the  father,  Wotan,  whose  anger 
has  died  away  as  the  sunset  sky  has  slowly  faded  into 
deeper  and  deeper  gray.  Then,  to  long-drawn-out  and  en- 
chanting melody,  Bninnhilde's  head  sinks  on  her  father's 
breast,  and  his  mind  wanders  back  to  the  happy  time  when 
she,  the  War  Maiden,  his  pride,  brought  new  warriors,  the 
boldest  and  best,  to  fill  the  Walhalla  courts.  The  poor 
Walkiire  can  but  sob  that  she  has  loved  her  father,  Wotan, 
and  Walhalla,  and  implore  him,  if  she  is  to  become  a 
mortal's  bride,  to  surround  her  rock  with  fire,  to  bar  her 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL    LIFE. 


*59 


from  all  but  the  bravest.  It  is  now  almost  dark ;  a  faint 
red  light  lingers  on  the  supple,  yet  lordly,  form  of  Briinn- 
hilde.  A  strange  swoon  seems  to  have  already  seized  her  ; 
the  god  lays  her  gently  prostrate  on  the  rock,  then  waves 
her  into  her  long  sleep.  Then,  retiring  suddenly  to  the 
back  of  the  stage,  he  calls  for  the  Fire  god,  Loge  ;  a  burst 
of  fire  breaks  out  and  runs  round  the  stage  ;  in  another 
moment  the  whole  background  is  an  immense  wall  of  rose- 
colored  flame,  which  gradually  creeps  round  the  rock.  To 
the  most  enchanting  and  dream-like  music  of  silver  bells, 
harps,  and  flutes,  with  an  under-current  of  bass  strings,  the 
sleep  of  the  Walkiire  begins ;  the  god  scales  the  rocks, 
stands  for  a  moment  in  the  midst  of  the  fire,  then  passes 
through  it  out  of  sight,  as  the  curtain  falls  to  the  silver, 
peaceful,  unearthly  cadences,  repeated  again  ai.a  again, 
swelling  and  falling,  and  ceasing  at  last,  leaving  the  heart, 
after  so  much  fierce  storm,  at  rest. 

III.  —  Siegfried. 

The  grotesque  music  given  to  both  Mime  and  Alberich, 
like  so  much  of  Wagner's  misunderstood  recitative,  aims, 
no  doubt,  at  following  the  inflections  of  the  human  voice  as 
it  is  affected  often  by  very  commonplace  moods,  as  well  as 
by  the  meaner  impulses  of  arrogance,  vexation,  anger,  and 
spite.  What  we  lose  in  musical  charm  we  gain  in  a  certain 
ingenious  sense  of  reality.  I  think  the  power  of  Wagner, 
the  solidity  of  his  work,  largely  turns  upon  this.  He  is 
never  afraid  of  length,  of  silence,  even  of  dulness,  caused  by 
protracted  or  delayed  action.  Like  De  Balzac,  he  knew 
well  how  to  work  up  slowly  and  surely  to  a  consummate 
effect,  and  his  effect  never  hangs  fire,  nor  is  it  ever  liable  to 
an  anticlimax,  that  bane  of  second-rate  artists. 

A  cavern  rocky  —  somewhere  deep  in  a  forest  —  lies 
before  us  ;  and  Mime,  the  misshapen  thing,  —  fit  brother  of 
Alberich,  the  lord  of  Niebelheim,  or  fog-land, — works  away 
at  a  forge  to  make  a  sword  fit  for  —  who?  In  he  comes, 
the  wild,  robust  child  of  the  forest,  reminding  me  of  the 
first  appearance  of  that  other  wild,  robust  creation,  Parsifal. 
In  he  comes,  driving  a  fierce  brown  bear,  bridled  in  sport. 
Mime,  the  dwarf,  shrinks  back ;  Mime,  who  has  been 
foster-father  to  this  Siegfried,   son  of  Sieglinde  and  Sieg- 


160  MEMORIES    OF  A    MUSICAL    LIFE. 

mund.  He  has  brought  him  up  in  ignorance  of  his  paren- 
tage, knowing  well  the  dash  of  Deity  in  his  blood,  and 
knowing  also  that  could  the  fragments  of  the  magic  sword, 
given  up  by  Sieglinde  as  her  most  precious  legacy,  be 
somehow  welded  together  again,  Siegfried,  her  son, 
would  be  able  to  wield  it  with  resistless  might  and  slay  the 
dragon  Father  who  keeps  the  gold. 

This  accursed  gold-heap — eternal  symbol  of  ill-gotten 
wealth  and  the  curse  of  it  —  forms  the  magic  centre  around 
which  all  the  actors  in  this  cycle  of  dramas,  consciously 
or  unconsciously,  move. 

The  character-contrast  between  Mime,  the  mean,  double- 
dealing,  cringing,  cowardly  creature  who  hopes  to  use  the 
young  hero  for  its  purposes,  and  Siegfried,  the  free,  noble, 
daring  youth,  with  a  presentiment  of  great  destinies  before 
him,  —  both  are  drawn  in  large  outline.  Great  distinction  of 
type,  great  simplicity  of  conception  and  straightforwardness 
of  execution  ;  the  master  is  sure  of  his  touches  and  lays  them 
on  with  a  free,  bold  hand.  Siegfried  throughout  revolts 
against  Mime  ;  yet  Mime  holds  secrets  which  he  burns  to 
know.  Who  were  his  father  and  mother?  What  means  his 
wild,  secluded,  lonely  life?  He  cannot  taste  broth  at  Mime's 
hands  without  disgust ;  he  cannot  talk  with  him  without 
quarrelling ;  he  can  hardly  bear  the  sight  of  him  ;  will  not 
believe  that  Mime  is  his  father  at  all ;  wants  a  sword  that  he 
cannot  break  ;  will  have  the  fragments  of  the  magic  sword 
Nothung  welded  ;  shatters  Mime's  welding  of  them,  pro- 
ceeds to  weld  them   himself. 

The  welding  of  Nothung,  hammer  on  anvil  in  the  gloomy 
cavern,  with  the  regular  puffing  and  blowing  of  the  rude 
bellows ;  the  protracted  song,  most  tuneful,  almost  con- 
ventional in  form,  broken  off  and  resumed,  and  itself,  as 
it  were,  welded  with  every  blow  into  the  sword  Nothung, — 
produces  a  very  singular  and  "  seizing  "  elfect.  The  actors 
appear  to  be  entirely  lost  in  their  business  ;  the  audience 
have  come  upon  a  forge  in  a  very  rocky  forest  cave  ;  diffi- 
cult work  is  going  on,  to  very  long-winded  accompaniment, 
full  of  varied  realistic  detail.  If  we  want  to  see  the  work 
put  through  we  must  stop  ;  if  not,  we  may  go.  But  the 
work  cannot  be  hastened,  —  the  welding  of  that  sword  is  the 
turning-point  of  the  drama  ;  the  wielding  of  it  secures  the 
gold,  the  ring,  and  the  helmet ;  and  the  spell  of  these  secures 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  161 


Briinnhilde  for  Siegfried  ;  the  transfer  of  these  treasures 
wrecks  Briinnhilde  and  brings  on  the  final  catastrophe. 
The  action  is  delayed  ;  but  the  welding  is  thorough,  and 
when,  with  a  mighty  stroke,  the  anvil  is  cloven  in  twain  we 
know  that  the  young  hero  is  at  last  fitted  with  an  irresistible 
weapon,  and  that  the  drama  has  moved  through  one  of  its 
most  critical  and  decisive  stages. 

The  dragon's  cave,  the  summer  woods,  the  coming 
together  of  the  various  people  interested  in  the  gold,  —  these 
are  the  elements  of  the  next  act.  There  is  the  Wanderer, 
the  god  VVotan  in  disguise,  who  originally  stole  the  gold 
from  Alberich,  who  in  his  turn  had  filched  it  from  the 
Rhine  girls,  and  who  now  thinks  he  may  get  it  back  some- 
how from  Fafner  the  giant.  Fafner,  in  the  form  of  a  great 
dragon,  lies  on  it  day  and  night.  There  is  Alberich,  the 
first  robber,  hovering  about  the  Neid-hole,  or  cavern,  in  the 
hope  of  getting  back  the  treasure  ;  there  is  Mime,  who 
about  this  time  makes  sure  of  the  prize  in  his  own  mind,  as 
he  fancies  Siegfried  is  in  his  power,  and  proposes  to  employ 
him  to  kill  Fafner.  Then  he  will  poison  him  with  a 
draught,  and  clutch  both  magic  sword  and  treasure. 

The  grimness  and  hideousness  of  the  cavern  and  the 
worm-dragon  seem  to  resume  the  spirit  of  all  the  unlovely 
wickedness  and  avarice  of  Siegfried's  rivals. 

The  dragon  is,  no  doubt,  the  weak  point.  I  believe  Mr. 
Dannreuther  gave  three  hundred  pounds  for  him  in  London, 
and  brought  him  over  with  the  utmost  care.  His  tail,  I  am 
told,  was  worked  by  one  man  inside  him,  and  his  jaws  by 
another ;  but  somehow  he  could  not  be  got  to  show  fight  at 
the  right  time.  He  was  a  poor  beast ;  the  steam  came  out 
of  his  mouth  too  late  ;  his  tail  stuck  half-way  on  the  wag, 
and  he  had  evidently  some  difficulty  in  opening  his  jaws. 
He  was  easily  slain,  and  rolled  over  conveniently  enough,, 
leaving  the  treasure  in  the  hands  of  Siegfried. 

Otherwise  the  weirdness  of  the  whole  scene  was  inde- 
scribable. That  enchanting  summer  land  ;  that  delicious 
burst  of  woodland  melody  ;  that  strong  contrast  between 
the  blazing  sheen  of  emerald  and  amber-lighted  trees  and 
the  gloomy  cavern  hard  by ;  that  sudden  poetic,  trance- 
like  pause,  full  of  wild  birds  and  love-dreams,  just  before 
the  sharp  attack  on  the  dragon,  followed  by  the  repulsive 
murder  of  Mime,  and  the  resumption  of  the  same  bright 


162  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

love-dream  immediately  afterwards,  —  this  can  never  fail  to 
impress  the  dullest  sensibility  with  its  extreme  beauty. 
Vogel"s  Siegfried,  as  an  impersonation,  was  on  a  level 
with  Materna's  Briinnhilde.  The  music  to  which  the 
curtain  falls  on  the  second  act,  as  Siegfried,  wild  with 
anticipation,  follows  the  bird  that  flies  before  him  singing, 
and  showing  him  the  way  to  Brunnhilde,  who  lies  on  her 
fire-girt  rock  waiting  for  him;  that  ocean  of  summer 
woodland  music  upon  which  a  hero's  spirit  passes  into 
the  consciousness  of  first  love,  —  is  beyond  these  halting 
words. 

I  suppose  it  will  be  generally  allowed  that  Wagner  is 
the  greatest  master  of  love  duets  that  ever  wedded  words  to 
music.  The  absorbing  picture  of  love  and  jealousy  in 
"  Lohengrin  ;  "  of  pure  and  impure  love  subtly  contrasted  in 
"  Tannhauser"  —  passion  of  love  and  death  in  "  Tristan  and 
Isolde  ;  "  the  unique  passages  between  Parsifal  and  Kundry, 
—  passion  essentially  primeval  touched  with  a  certain  divine 
intensity,  as  is  fit  in  demi-gods.  like  Siegfried  and  Brunn- 
hilde.—  these  are  essential  manifestations  of  dramatic  force 
and  profound  intention,  beside  which  even  the  love  passages 
in  Gounod's  "Faust  and  Marguerite"  seem  like  mere  child's 
play. 

The  moment  has  arrived.  The  majestic  Brunnhilde  wakes 
with  all  her  divine  war-maiden  instincts  still  upon  her; 
confronts  the  hero  who  is  to  win  her,  at  first  with  terror ; 
realizes  slowly,  painfully,  then  irresistibly  and  ecstaticallv, 
the  might  of  human  passion,  and  surrenders  the  old  heroism 
of  a  crumbling  Walhalla,  and  the  dreams  of  godlike  power 
and  independence,  at  the  burning  touch  of  human  love. 
Better  that  touch  of  real  life  than  all  the  flimsy  visions  of 
a  decaying  mvthologv  ;  nobler  the  sincerity  of  human  feel- 
ing, that  seizes  its  object  and  concentrates  its  sympathies, 
than  the  vague,  restless  wanderings  of  old  reprobates  like 
Wotan,  or  the  war-lust  of  fiery,  death-hungry  Walkiire,  such 
as  Brunnhilde  was,  —  such  as  the  bride  Walkiire  will  never 
be  again.     Hear  her  :  — 

"  O  Siegfried  ! 
Lightener —  world's  delight  — 
Life  on  earth  — 
And  laughing  lord. 
Leave,  ah  !  leave  me!  " 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  163 

And  Siegfried  but  replies  :  — 

"Awaken,  Briinnhilde! 
Waken,  thou  maid ! 
Live  to  me,  laugh  to  me, 

Sweetest  delight : 
Be  mine !  be  mine !  " 

No  translation  seems  to  give  an  adequate  vigor  or  do 
justice  to  the  strength  and  passion  of  the  dialogue,  which 
ends  in  a  long  paean  of  triumph  as  the  curtain  falls  and 
Siegfried  takes  his  prize  :  — 

"  Hail,  thou  Sun, 
That  shinest  around  me  ! 
Hail,  thou  morn, 
From  out  the  dark! 
Hail,  thou  world, 
That  wakes  Briinnhilde ! 
She  wakes  !  she  lives  ! 
She  laugheth  back, 
My  splendid  star, 
My  Briinnhilde's  glow. 
Mine,  ever  mine, 
All  of  her  mine, 
And  only  mine! 

{Briinnhilde  throws  herself  into  SitgfriecTs  arms.) 

Come,  life  of  me  ! 
Thou  light  of  love  ! 
Thou  laughing  Death !  " 


IV.  —  The   Gotterdammerung. 

The  "Nibelung's  Ring"  closes  with  the  "  Dusk  of  the 
Gods."  The  truly  prodigious  way  in  which  all  the  leading 
subjects  are  repeated,  inverted,  and  worked  up  in  the  music 
of  this  last  colossal  drama,  cannot  be  described.  The  Wotan 
Melody,  — perhaps  the  finest,  — blown  on  trumpets  outside 
the  theatre,  rang  out  far  over  hill  and  dale,  and  floated  like 
an  ominous  blast  to  the  town  below.  At  the  familiar  sound 
the  people  flock  to  their  seats  in  the  theatre.  The  first 
melodies  of  the  "  Rheingold  "  break  from  the  orchestra,  and 
the  Norns  or  Fates  are  seen  weaving  the  last  of  their  ropes  ; 
they  see,  as  they  weave,  the  story  of  Siegfried  and  Briinnhilde  ; 


164  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

they  see  the  gods  growing  old  ;  they  trace  the  history  of 
Wotan's  earth  love  ;  they  start  with  horror  as  they  at  last 
see  the  flames  rising  in  a  vision  round  Walhalla.  The  rope 
breaks  ;  the  Norns  vanish. 

The  day  dawns  to  a  clear  subject  worked  in  skilful  coun- 
terpoint, and  the  farewell  scene  between  Biuinnhilde  and 
her  new  mate,  Siegfried,  as  he  parts  from  her  to  seek  knightly 
adventures,  now  absorbs  us.  Her  sorrow  at  parting  is  almost 
drowned  by  her  feeling  of  pride  in  him  and  the  thought  of 
glorious  war ;  and  here  the  Walkiire  nature  breaks  out  in 
her.  She  would  fain  follow  him,  but  this  may  not  be  ;  and 
as  she  is  about  to  be  left  again  on  her  fire-girt  rock,  she 
scales  one  height  after  another,  shouting  a  wild  and  ecstatic 
adieu  to  the  hero,  who  is  heard  galloping  away  to  a  strange 
mixture  of  Rhine  music  and  a  peculiar,  joyous,  scampering 
subject,  which,  together  with  his  horn-blast,  always  herald 
his  coming  and  going. 

But  the  curse  of  the  gold  is  upon  him,  and  death,  and 
worse  than  death,  is  brewing  for  him  in  the  house  of  Hagen, 
hateful  bastard  son  of  Dwarf  Alberich,  by  a  mortal  woman. 
Hagen  lives  with  his  brother  on  Rhine  banks,  when  Sieg- 
fried, as  a  wandering  knight,  appears  at  his  halls.  Hagen, 
Ghunter,  the  brother,  and  the  fair  sister,  Gutrune,  are  sit- 
ting together.  Hagen,  the  instrument  of  Alberich,  is 
wholly  bent  on  getting  back  the  Rheingold.  He  tells 
Ghunter  of  the  sleeping  Briinnhilde,  who  can  alone  be  ap- 
proached by  Siegfried,  and  inflames  his  desire  to  seize  her. 
At  this  moment  Siegfried's  horn  is  heard  ;  he  enters,  and 
the  plot  thickens.  He  is  soon  given  a  drink,  which  makes 
him  forget  every  woman  he  has  known  before,  even  poor 
Briinnhilde.  Siegfried,  thus  bewitched,  then  proceeds  to 
fall  in  love  with  Gutrune,  and  listens  to  the  tale  of  Briinn- 
hilde on  the  flame-girt  rock  with  astonishment,  swears 
friendship  to  Ghunter,  and  undertakes  to  assume  his  friend's 
shape  by  magic,  cross  the  flames,  seize  his  own  Briinnhilde, 
and  hand  her  over  to  Ghunter. 

From  this  moment  the  horrible  plot  is  harrowing  in  the 
extreme.  No  art,  no  music,  no  magic,  can  reconcile  us  to 
what  follows  ;  the  horror  is  piled  up.  The  scene  changes. 
Briinnhilde  waits  on  her  rock ;  hears  a  horse  and  Siegfried's 
horn,  but  with  something  jarring  and  false  about  it ;  but  she 
heeds  not  that,  —  he  returns  !     The  fire  is  crossed,  a  warrior 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  165 

appears  on  the  height.  She  flies  to  throw  herself  into  his 
arms,  — the  form  of  Ghunter  is  before  her  !  How  he  coolly 
hands  her  over  to  the  real  Ghunter,  who  is  waiting ;  her 
horror  and  bewildering  despair  ;  his  callous  indifference  and 
complete  absence  of  all  memory  of  her,  which  she  cannot 
revive  in  him  ;  the  meeting  of  the  two  couples,  Briinnhilde 
and  Ghunter  with  Siegfried  and  his  new  bride,  Gutrune  ; 
the  terrible  scene  between  Briinnhilde  and  Siegfried  before 
the  household  and  retainers  of  Hagen,  in  which  she  declares 
Gutrune's  husband  to  be  hers  ;  the  jealous  frenzy  of  Ghunter 
and  the  death  of  Siegfried,  which  is  now  plotted  and  pres- 
ently carried  out  by  stabbing  in  the  back,  —  all  this  it  is 
impossible  here  to  do  more  than  summarize. 

A  brief  and  exquisite  episode  between  the  Rhine  daughters 
and  Siegfried,  chiefly  a  treble  trio  by  the  floating  nymphs 
of  sustained  and  enchanting  beauty,  relieves  the  pressure  of 
horror  we  have  just  been  going  through  from  the  despair 
and  fury  of  Briinnhilde,  whose  wild  cries  and  heart-rending 
gestures  can  never  be  forgotten. 

Then  comes,  at  last,  the  beginning  of  the  end.  Siegfried, 
seated  with  Hagen,  Ghunter,  and  warriors,  drinks  of  a  cup 
which  restores  his  memory,  and  begins  to  relate  his  past 
life  ;  as  he  advances  in  his  narrative,  full  of  wondrous  dec- 
lamation and  music,  he  at  length  nears  the  Briinnhilde 
episode  ;  snatches  of  the  Walkiire  and  the  fire-sleep  music 
break  out ;  a  strange  fervor  seizes  him  ;  he  tells  of  the  em- 
brace on  the  rock,  and  his  mind  begins  to  reel  with  sudden 
perplexity.  But  it  is  enough.  At  this  point  Hagen  stabs 
him  in  the  back.  As  he  dies  his  thoughts  grow  clear. 
Briinnhilde's  first  love  returns ;  he  sees  but  her,  dreams 
of  her  in  his  dying  swoon  ;  although  she  is  not  present, 
she,  his  first,  last  love,  fills  his  latest  consciousness. 

The  struggle  for  the  Ring  which  follows,  the  suicide  of 
Ghunter,  the  sudden  apparition  of  Briinnhilde,  introduce 
the  last  episode  of  striking  beauty.  The  scenery  from  this 
point  becomes  indescribable.  The  moon  is  full  upon  the 
ruffled  Rhine  waters,  ;  the  tall  funeral  tapers  flash  on  the 
steel  helms  of  the  retainers  ;  the  body  of  Siegfried,  clad  in 
mail,  lies  in  the  middle  of  the  stage,  and  the  stately  form 
of  the  Walkiire  is  isolated  by  his  side,  as  the  crowd  falls  t« 
right  and  left. 


1 66  MEMORIES  OF  A  MUSICAL  UEE. 

While  an  immense  funeral  pyre  is  being  built  up  in  the 
background  beside  the  Rhine  waters,  Briinnhilde  makes 
her  last  reconciliation  with  Seigfried.  As  she  gazes  on  his 
pallid  face  she  reads  that  dying  recognition.  She  under- 
stands, at  last,  the  magic  spell  that  was  on  him.  Her  love  tow- 
ers above  everything  else  ;  she  stands  there  the  embodiment  of 
the  sublime  trust  in  love  beyond  sight,  that  believes  and  lasts 
out  against  all  adverse  shocks,  and  is  faithful  even  unto 
death.  She  has  known  divine  might  in  the  halls  of  Wal- 
halla ;  she  has  had  the  power  of  the  Ring  and  the  power  of 
Gold,  and  enjoyed  all  fame  of  war  and  victory,  and  now, 
with  her  latest  breath,  comes  solemnly  forth,  what  is  the 
conclusion  of  the  whole  drama,  "Blessedness,  through  joy 
and  sorrow,  comes  to  us  from  Love  unquenchable  alone  !  " 

With  this  she  moves  in  the  moonlight  towards  the  Rhine. 
She  draws  the  Ring  of  the  Rheingold  —  the  cause  of  such 
grief  and  manifold  pain  —  from  the  hero's  finger,  and 
flings  it  back  into  the  Rhine,  fiom  whence  at  the  com- 
mencement it  was  snatched  by  Alberich. 

Walkiire's  black  war-horse  has  been  brought  to  her  ;  she 
waves  high  a  flaming  torch,  and  hurls  it  upon  the  bier;  the 
fire  rises  in  lurid  columns.  She  mounts  her  steed  and  leaps 
into  the  flames. 

At  that  moment,  in  the  awful  glow  of  the  flaming  pyre, 
the  waters,  still  flashing  with  moonlight  in  the  background, 
begin  to  swell  and  advance,  and  the  Rhine  daughters,  sing- 
ing the  wildest  Rhine  music,  are  seen  floating  to  and  fro. 
Beyond  a  ruddier  light  broadens,  until  the  distant  sky 
discloses  the  courts  of  the  Walhalla  in  flames.  With  a 
crash  in  the  foreground  the  house  of  Hagen  falls ;  and, 
whilst  the  mighty  conflagration  flares  up  in  the  distance,  the 
Rhine  waters,  to  rushing  music,  advance  and  submerge  the 
whole  of  the  stage. 

Thus,  with  a  scene  of  unequalled  dramatic  splendor,  ends 
the  fourth  and  last  immense  drama  of  the  '-Xibelung's  Ring." 
At  the  close  of  it  the  pent-up  enthusiasm  of  the  public  rose 
to  a  pitch  of  frenzy.  They  stood  up,  and,  turning  to  the 
royal  box,  which  Wagner  had  left,  shouted  to  the  king, 
who  remained  seated  and  bowed  graciously.  The  plaudits 
continuing  his  majesty  motioned  to  the  stage.  The 
people  turned,  and  in  a  moment  Wagner,  dressed  in  plain 
black,  with  his  hat  in  one  hand,  stepped  out  from  the  mid- 


MEMORIES  OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE.  167 

die  of  the  curtain,  and  spoke  very  quietly,  saying  that  he  had 
taken  many  years  in  preparing  this  work ;  that  he  had 
presented  a  saga  of  the  Nibelung  in  the  belief  that  it  dealt 
with  subjects  peculiarly  congenial  to  the  Germanic  races  ; 
that  a  new  and  national  development  of  the  drama  was  now 
within  their  reach  ;  he  believed  that  they  had  been  satisfied 
with  what  they  had  listened  to,  so  that  it  had  been  to  the 
many  assembled  there  a  real  Festpiel.  He  then  thanked 
the  king  for  his  support  and  encouragement ;  and,  the  curtain 
being  suddenly  lifted,  all  the  crowd  of  musicians  and  actors 
who  had  taken  part  in  the  festival  stood  ranged,  and  Wag- 
ner, turning  round,  thanked  them  in  the  warmest  terms  for 
their  devotion  and  assistance. 

So  ended  the  first  great  Wagner  Festival,  held  at  Bay- 
reuth  in  1876. 


!6S  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  X. 

LISZT. 

WHO  has  not  heard  of  Liszt?  Who  has  heard  Liszt? 
I  suppose  to  most  of  us  in  England  he  is  person- 
ally a  great  tradition  and  nothing  more  ;  his  com- 
positions, indeed,  form  the  chief  pieces  de  resistance  of  our 
annual  crop  of  piano-forte  recitals,  but  the  man  and  his  play- 
ing are  alike  unknown.  He  has  already  become  historical 
during  his  lifetime.  Only  by  a  happy  chance  can  I  reckon 
myself  amongst  the  few  who  have  lately  heard  Liszt  play. 

I  happened  to  be  staying  in  Rome,  and  Liszt  kindly 
invited  me  over  to  the  Villa  d'Este  twice. 

There,  at  Tivoli,  alone  with  him,  he  conversed  with  me 
of  the  time  —  long  gone  by — of  Mendelssohn,  of  Paganini, 
of  Chopin. 

There,  in  the  warm  light  of  an  Italian  autumn,  subdued 
by  the  dark  red  curtains  that  hung  in  his  study,  with  an  old- 
world  silence  around  us,  he  sat  at  his  piano  once  more  ;  and 
as  he  played  to  me  the  clock  of  time  went  back,  and  Chopin 
entered  with  his  pale,  refined  face,  his  slight,  aristocratic  fig- 
ure ;  Heine  sat  restlessly  in  a  dark  corner ;  Madame  Sand 
reclined  in  the  deep  window  niche  overlooking  the  desolate 
Campagna,  with  Rome  in  the  distance  ;  De  Lammenais  stood 
at  the  foot  of  the  piano,  —  a  delicate,  yet  sinewy  and  mobile 
frame,  — with  his  noble,  eager  face  all  aglow,  his  eloquent 
tongue  silent,  listening  to  the  inspirations  of  another  believer 
in  another  evangelium — the  evangelium  of  the  emotions, 
the  gospel  of  art. 

One  thousand  eight  hundred  and  eleven  was  the  year  of 
the  great  comet,  —  a  year  which  we  are  told  reechoed 
with  the  sounds  of  the  lyre  and  the  sword,  and  announced 
so  many  pioneering  spirits  of  the  future. 

In  1811  was  Franz  Liszt  born.  He  had  the  hot  Hunga- 
rian blood  of  his  father,  the  fervid  German  spirit  of  his 
mother,  and  he  inherited  the  lofty  independence,  with  none 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  169 

of  the  class  prejudices  of  the  old  Hungarian  nobility,  from 
which  he  sprang. 

Liszt's  father,  Adam,  earned  a  modest  livelihood  as  agent 
and  accountant  in  the  house  of  Count  Esterhazy.  In  that 
great  musical  family,  inseparably  associated  with  the  names 
of  Haydn  and  Schuber,1  Adam  Liszt  had  frequent  oppor- 
tunities of  meeting  distinguished  musicians.  The  prince's 
private  band  had  risen  to  public  fame  under  the  instruction 
of  the  venerable  Haydn  himself.  The  Liszts,  father  and 
son,  often  went  to  Eisenstadt,  where  the  count  lived  ;  there 
they  rubbed  elbows  with  Cherubim"  and  Hummel,  a  pupil 
of  Mozart. 

Franz  took  to  music  from  his  earliest  childhood.  When 
about  five  years  old  he  was  asked  what  he  would  like  to 
do.  "  Learn  the  piano,"  said  the  little  fellow.  Soon  after- 
wards his  father  asked  him  what  he  would  like  to  be  ;  the 
child  pointed  to  a  print  of  Beethoven  on  the  wall  and  said, 
"  Like  him."  But  there  was  a  certain  intensity  in  all  he 
did  which  seemed  to  wear  him  out.  He  was  attacked  with 
fever,  but  could  hardly  be  persuaded  to  lie  down  until  com- 
pletely exhausted  ;  then  he  lay  and  prayed  aloud  to  God  to 
make  him  well,  and  vowed  that  on  his  recovery  he  would 
only  make  hymns  and  play  music  which  pleased  God  and 
his  parents. 

The  boy's  decided  bent  soon  banished  all  thought  of  any- 
thing but  a  musical  vocation,  but  the  res  angustce  domi 
stood  in  the  way.  How  was  he  to  be  taught?  How  was 
he  to  be  heard  ?  How  to  earn  money  ?  That  personal  fas- 
cination, from  which  no  one  who  has  ever  come  in  contact 
with  Liszt  has  quite  escaped,  helped  him  thus  early. 
When  eight  years  old  he  played  before  Count  Esterhazy 
in  the  presence  of  six  noblemen,  amongst  them  Counts 
Amadee,  Apponyi,  and  Szapary.  Eternal  honor  to  their 
names  !  They  at  once  subscribed  for  him  an  annuity  of  six 
hundred  gulden  for  six  years.  This  was  to  help  the  little 
prodigy  to  a  musical  education. 

His  parents  felt  the  whole  importance  of  the  crisis.  If 
the  boy  was  to  prosper,  the  father's  present  retired  life,  with 
a  fixed  income,  must  be  changed  for  an  unsettled,  wandering, 
and  precarious  existence.     "  When  the  six  years  are  over, 

1  See  my  "  Music  and  Morals,"  sections  96,  106, 1st  edition. 


170 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


and  your  hopes  prove  vain,  what  will  become  of  us?"  said 
his  mother,  who  heard,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  that  father 
was  going  to  give  up  the  agency  and  settle  down  wherever 
the  boy  might  need  instruction,  protection,  and  a  home. 
11  Mother,"  said  the  impetuous  child,  "  what  God  wills!  " 
and  he  added,  prophetically  enough,  "  God  will  help  me  to 
repay  you  for  all  your  anxieties  and  for  what  you  do  for 
me."  And  with  what  results  he  labored  in  this  faith,  years 
afterwards  in  Paris,  we  shall  see. 

The  agency  was  thrown  up ;  the  humble  family  — 
mother,  father,  son  —  went  out  alone  from  the  little 
Hungarian  village  into  an  unknown  and  untried  world, 
simply  trusting  to  the  genius,  the  will,  the  word  of  an 
obscure  child  of  eight :  ;'  I  will  be  a  musician,  and  nothing 
else !  " 

As  the  child  knelt  at  his  farewell  mass  in  the  little  village 
church  of  Raiding  many  wept,  others  shook  their  heads  J 
but  some  even  then  seemed  to  have  a  presentiment  of  his 
future  greatness,  and  said,  "  That  boy  will  one  day  come 
back  in  a  glass  coach."  This  modest  symbol  represented  to 
them  the  idea  of  boundless  wealth. 

Hummel  would  only  teach  for  a  golden  louis  a  lesson,  and 
then  picked  his  pupils  ;  but  at  Vienna  the  father  and  son  fell 
in  with  Czerny,  Beethoven's  pupil,  and  the  famous  Salieri, 
now  seventy  years  old.  Czerny  at  once  took  to  Liszt,  but 
refused  to  take  anything  for  his  instruction.  Salieri  was 
also  fascinated,  and  instructed  him  in  harmony  ;  and  fortu- 
nate it  was  that  Liszt  began  his  course  under  two  such  strict 
mentors. 

He  soon  began  to  resent  Czerny's  method,  thought  he 
knew  better,  and  needed  not  those  dry  studies  of  Clementi 
and  that  irksome  fingering  by  rule.  He  could  finger  every- 
thing in  half-a-dozen  different  ways.  There  was  a  moment 
when  it  seemed  that  master  and  pupil  would  have  to  part ; 
but  timely  concessions  to  genius  paved  the  way  to  dutiful 
submission,  and  years  afterwards  the  great  master  dedicated 
to  the  rigid^disciplinarian  of  his  boyhood  his  Vingt-quatre 
Grandes  Etudes  in  affectionate  remembrance. 

Young  talent  often  splits  upon  the  rock  of  self-sufficiency. 
Many  a  clever  artist  has  failed,  because,  in  the  pride  of 
youthful  facility,  he  has  declined  the  method  and  drudgery 
of  a  correct  technique. 


MEMORIES   OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE. 


171 


Such  a  light  as  Liszt's  could  not  he  long  hid  ;  all  Vienna', 
in  1822,  was  talking  of  the  wonderful  boy. 

It  is  a  remarkable  tribute  to  the  generous  nature  as  well 
as  to  the  consummate  ability  of  Liszt,  that,  whilst  opposing 
partisans  have  fought  bitterly  over  him, — Thalbergites, 
Herzites,  Mendelssohnites  versus  Lisztites,  — yet  few  of  the 
great  artists  who  have,  one  after  another,  had  to  yield  to 
him  in  popularity,  have  denied  to  him  their  admiration, 
while  most  of  them  have  given  him  their  friendship. 

Liszt  early  wooed  and  early  won  Vienna.  He  spoke 
ever  of  his  dear  Viennese  and  their  "resounding  city." 

A  concert  tour  on  his  way  to  Paris  brought  him  before 
the  critical  public  of  Stuttgardt  and  Munich.  Hummel,  an 
old  man,  and  Moscheles,  then  in  his  prime,  heard  him,  and 
declared  that  his  playing  was  equal  to  theirs.  But  Liszt 
was  bent  upon  completing  his  studies  in  the  celebrated 
school  of  the  French  capital,  and  at  the  feet  of  the  old 
musical  dictator,  Cherubini. 

The  Erards,  who  were  destined  to  owe  so  much  to  Liszt, 
and  to  whom  Liszt  throughout  his  career  has  owed  so  much, 
at  once  provided  him  with  a  magnificent  piano  ;  but  Cheru- 
bini put  in  force  a  certain  by-law  of  the  Conservatoire  ex- 
cluding foreigners,  and  excluded  Franz  Liszt. 

This  was  a  bitter  pill  to  the  eager  student.  He  hardly 
knew  how  little  he  required  such  patronage.  In  a  very 
short  time  "  le  petit  Liszt"  was  the  great  Paris  sensation. 
The  old  noblesse  tried  to  spoil  him  with  flattery,  the 
Duchess  de  Berri  drugged  him  with  bonbons,  the  Duke  of 
Orleans  called  him  the  "  little  Mozart."  He  gave  private 
concerts  at  which  Herz,  Moscheles,  Lafont,  and  De  Beriot 
assisted.  Rossini  would  sit  by  his  side  at  the  piano  and 
applaud. 

He  was  only  twelve  when  he  played  for  the  first  time  at 
the  Italian  Opera,  and  one  of  those  singular  incidents  which 
remind  one  of  Paganini's  triumphs  occurred. 

At  the  close  of  a  bravura  cadenza  the  band  forgot  to  come 
in,  so  absorbed  were  the  musicians  in  watching  the  young 
prodigy.  Their  failure  was  worth  a  dozen  successes  to  Liszt. 
The  ball  of  the  marvellous  was  fairly  set  rolling. 

In  1824  Liszt,  then  thirteen  years  old,  came  with  his 
father  to  England  ;  his  mother  returned  to  Austria. 

He  went  down  to  Windsor  to  see  George  IV.,  who  was 


172  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

delighted  with  him,  and  Liszt,  speaking  of  him  to  me,  said, 
"  I  was  very  young  at  the  time,  hut  I  remember  the  king 
very  well,  —  a  fine,  pompous-looking  gentleman." 

In  London  he  met  Clementi,  whose  exercises  he  had  so 
objected  to  ;  Cipriani  Potter  ;  Cramer,  also  of  exercise  celeb- 
rity ;  Kalkbrenner ;  Neate,  then  a  fashionable  pianist,  once 
a  great  favorite  of  George  III.,  and  whom  I  remember  about 
thirty  years  ago  in  extreme  old  age  at  Brighton.  He  de- 
scribed to  me  the  poor  old  king's  delight  at  hearing  him  play 
some  simple  English  melodies.  "  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Neate," 
said  George  III.,  "  I  have  had  more  pleasure  in  hearing  you 
play  those  simple  airs  than  in  all  the  variations  and  tricks 
your  fine  players  afl'ect." 

George  IV.  went  to  Drury  Lane  on  purpose  to  hear  the 
boy,  and  commanded  an  encore.  Liszt  was  also  heard  in  the 
theatre  at  Manchester,  and  in  several  private  houses. 

On  his  return  to  France  people  noticed  a  change  in  him. 
He  was  now  fourteen,  grave,  serious,  often  preoccupied, 
already  a  little  tired  of  praise,  and  excessively  tired  of  being 
called  "  le  petit  Liszt."  His  vision  began  to  take  a  wider 
sweep.  The  relation  between  art  and  religion  exercised 
him.  His  mind  was  naturally  devout.  Thomas  a  Kempis 
was  his  constant  companion.  "  Rejoice  in  nothing  but  a 
good  deed  ;  "  "  Through  labor  to  rest,  through  combat  to 
victory;"  "The  glory  which  men  give  and  take  is  transi- 
tory,"—  these  and  like  phrases  were  already  deeply  engraven 
on  the  fleshly  tablets  of  his  heart.  Amidst  all  his  glowing 
triumphs  he  was  developing  a  curious  disinclination  to 
appear  in  public  ;  he  seemed  to  yearn  for  solitude  and  medi- 
tation. 

In  1827  he  now  again  hurried  to  England  for  a  short  time, 
but  his  father's  sudden  illness  drove  them  to  Boulogne, 
where,  in  his  forty-seventh  year,  died  Adam  Liszt,  leaving 
the  young  Franz  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  at  the  early  age 
of  sixteen,  unprotected  and  alone. 

Rousing  himself  from  the  bodily  prostration  and  torpor 
of  grief  into  which  he  had  been  thrown  by  the  death  of  his 
father,  Franz,  with  admirable  energy  and  that  high  sense 
of  honor  which  has  always  distinguished  him,  began  to  set 
his  house  in  order.  He  called  in  all  his  debts,  sold  his 
magnificent  grand  Erard,  and  left  Boulogne  for  Paris  with  a 
heavy  heart  and  a  light  pocket,  but  not  owing  a  sou. 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


*73 


He  sent  for  his  mother,  and  for  the  next  twelve  years, 
182S-1840,  the  two  lived  together,  chiefly  in  Paris.  There, 
as  a  child,  he  had  been  a  nine-days'  wonder  ;  but  the  solidity 
of  his  reputation  was  now  destined  to  go  hand  in  hand  with 
his  stormy  and  interrupted  mental  and  moral  development. 

Such  a  plant  could  not  come  to  maturity  all  at  once. 
No  drawing-room  or  concert-room  success  satisfied  a  heart 
for  which  the  world  of  human  emotion  seemed  too  small, 
and  an  intellect  piercing  with  intuitive  intelligence  into  the 
"  clear-obscure  "  depths  of  religion  and  philosophy. 

But  Franz  was  young,  and  Franz  was  poor,  and  his 
mother  had  to  be  supported.  She  was  his  first  care.  Sys- 
tematically he  labored  to  put  by  a  sum  which  would  assure 
her  of  a  competency,  and  often  with  his  tender,  genial  smile 
he  would  remind  her  of  his  own  childish  words,  "  God  will 
help  me  to  repay  you  for  all  that  you  have  done  for  me." 
Still  he  labored  often  wofully  against  the  grain. 

Of  course  the  gifted  young  pianist's  connection  grew 
rapidly.  He  got  his  twenty  francs  a  lesson  at  the  best 
houses ;  he  was  naturally  a  welcome  guest,  and  from  the 
first  seemed  to  have  the  run  of  high  Parisian  society.  His 
life  was  feverish,  his  activity  irregular,  his  health  far  from 
strong  ;  but  the  vulgar  temptations  of  the  gay  capital  seemed 
to  have  little  attraction  for  his  noble  nature.  His  heart 
remained  unspoiled.  He  was  most  generous  to  those  who 
could  not  afford  to  pay  for  his  lessons,  most  pitiful  to  the 
poor,  most  dutiful  and  affectionate  to  his  mother.  Coming 
home  late  from  some  grand  entertainment  he  would  sit 
outside  on  the  staircase  till  morning  sooner  than  awaken,  or 
perhaps  alarm,  her  by  letting  himself  in.  But  in  losing  his 
father  he  seemed  to  have  lost  a  certain  method  and  order. 
His  meals  were  irregular ;  so  were  his  lessons ;  more  so 
were  the  hours  devoted  to  sleep. 

At  this  time  he  was  hardly  twenty ;  we  are  not  surprised 
anon  to  hear  in  his  own  words  of  "a  female  form  chaste 
and  pure  as  the  alabaster  of  holy  vessel ; "  but  he  adds, 
"  Such  was  the  sacrifice  which  I  offered  with  tears  to 
the  God  of  Christians  !  " 

I  will  explain. 

Mile.  Caroline  St.  Cricq  was  just  seventeen,  lithe, 
slender,  and  of  'l  angelic  "  beauty,  and  a  complexion  like  a 
lily  flushed  with  roses,   "  impressionable  to  beauty,  to  the 


'74 


MEMORIES  OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


world,  to  religion,  to  God."  The  countess,' her  mother, 
appears  to  have  been  a  charming  woman,  very  partial  to 
Liszt,  whom  she  engaged  to  instruct  mademoiselle  in  music. 

The  lessons  were  not  by  time,  but  by  inclination.  The 
young  man's  eloquence,  varied  knowledge,  ardent  love  of 
literature,  and  flashing  genius  won  both  the  mother  and 
daughter.  Not  one  of  them  seemed  to  suspect  the  whirl- 
pool of  grief  and  death  to  which  they  were  hurrying.  The 
countess  fell  ill  and  died,  but  not  before  she  had  recom- 
mended Liszt  to  the  Count  St.  Cricq  as  a  possible  suitor 
for  the  hand  of  mademoiselle. 

The  haughty  diplomat  St.  Cricq  at  once  put  his  foot 
down.  The  funeral  over,  Liszt's  movements  were  watched. 
They  were  innocent  enough.  He  was  already  an  enfant  de 
la  ma/son,  but  one  night  he  lingered  reading  aloud  some 
favorite  author  to  mademoiselle  a  little  too  late.  He  was 
reported  by  the  servants,  and  received  his  polite  dismissal 
as  music-master. 

In  an  interview  with  the  count  his  own  pride  was  deeply 
wounded.  "  Difference  of  rank  !  "  said  the  count.  That 
was  quite  enough  for  Liszt.  He  rose,  pale  as  death,  with 
quivering  lip,  but  uttered  not  a  word. 

As  a  man  of  honor  he  had  but  one  course.  He  and 
Caroline  parted  forever.  She  contracted  later  an  uncon- 
genial marriage ;  he  seems  to  have  turned  with  intense 
ardor  to  religion.  His  good  mother  used  to  complain  to 
those  who  came  to  inquire  for  him  that  he  was  all  day  long 
in  church,  and  had  ceased  to  occupy  himself,  as  he  should, 
with  music. 

Love,  grief,  religion,  all  struggling  together  for  victory 
in  that  young  and  fervid  spirit,  at  last  seemed  to  fairly 
exhaust  him.  His  old  haunts  knew  him  not ;  his  pupils 
were  neglected  ;  he  saw  no  friends,  shut  himself  up  in  his 
room,  and  at  last  would  only  see  his  mother  at  meals.  He 
never  appeared  in  the  streets,  and  not  unnaturally  ended  by 
falling  dangerously  ill. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Paris  was  one  morning  startled 
with  the  following  newspaper  announcement : — 

"   DEATH  OF  YOUNG  LISZT. 

"Young  Liszt  died  at  Paris  —  the  event  is  painful  —  at 
an  age  when  most  children  are  at  school.  He  had  con- 
quered the  public,  etc." 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


175 


So  wrote  the  JStoile.  In  fact,  he  was  seriously  ill.  M. 
von  Lenz,  Beethoven's  biographer,  went  to  visit  him.  He 
was  lying  pale,  haggard,  and  apathetic  ;  could  hardly  be 
roused  to  converse  except  occasionally  when  music  cropped 
up.  Then  his  eye  brightened  for  a  moment  like  the 
"  flashing  of  a  dagger  in  the  sun." 

In  1830  the  Revolution  burst  on  Paris.  This,  it  seems, 
was  needed  to  arouse  Liszt.  The  inner  life  was  suddenly 
to  be  exchanged  for  the  outer.  Self  was  to  be  merged  in 
the  larger  interests,  some  of  them  delusions,  which  now 
began  to  pose  again  under  the  cunning  watchwords  of 
"  Liberte,  Egalite,  Fraternite."  Generous  souls  saw  in  the 
quarrel  of  Charles  X.  with  his  people  the  hope  of  a  new 
national  life.  They  proposed  to  exchange  the  old  and  effete 
"Divine  right"  for  the  legitimate  "sovereignty  of  the 
people."  "  C'est  le  canon  qui  l'a  gueri !  "  his  mother  used 
to  say.  Liszt  was  hardly  restrained  by  her  tears  and 
entreaties  from  rushing  to  the  barricades.  The  cure 
threatened  to  be  worse  than  the  disease.  The  heroic  deeds 
of  the  "great  week"  inflamed  him,  and  he  shouted  with 
the  rest  for  the  silver-haired  General  Lafayette,  "  genius  of 
the  liberties  of  two  worlds." 

The  republican  enthusiasm,  so  happily  restrained  from 
action  out  of  affection  for  his  dependent  mother,  found  a 
more  wholesome  vent  in  a  vigorous  return  to  his  neglected 
art.  Just  as  he  was  busy  revolving  great  battle  symphonies, 
his  whole  artistic  nature  received  a  decisive  and  startling 
impulse  from  the  sudden  apparition  of  Paganini  in  Paris. 
Preceded  by  revolution  and  cholera,  this  weird  man  had 
come  upon  the  bright  city  that  had  sinned  and  suffered  so 
much,  and  found  her  shaken  and  demoralized,  but  still 
seething  with  a  strange  ferment  of  new  life  in  which  Saint- 
Simonianism,  communism,  and  scepticism,  side  by  side 
with  fanaticism,  piety,  and  romance,  struggled  to  make 
confusion  worse  confounded.  Into  the  depths  of  what  has 
been  called  the  Romantic  movement  of  1830-40  it  is  not  my 
purpose  here  to  enter.  There  was  war  alike  with  the  arti- 
ficial humdrum  of  the  old  French  world  and  the  still  more 
artificial  revival  of  the  classical  world  of  Greece  and 
Rome. 

The  human  spirit  was  at  length  to  be  liberated  ;  no  one, 
it  was  held,  need  believe  anything  that  did  not  happen  to 


176  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

commend  itself  to  his  fancy  or  passion.  As  Heine  put  it : 
"  The  great  God,  it  appeared,  was  not  at  all  the  being  in 
whom  our  grandmothers  had  trusted  ;  he  was,  in  fact,  none 
other  than  you  yourself."  No  one  need  be  bound  by  the 
morals  of  an  effete  civilization.  In  Love  the  world  of  sen- 
timent alone  must  decide  our  actions.  Every  one  must  be 
true  to  nature.  All  men  were  brothers,  and  women  should 
have  equal  and  independent  rights.  The  social  contract, 
most  free  and  variable,  must  be  substituted  for  marriage, 
community  of  goods  for  hereditary  possessions,  philosophy 
for  law,  and  romance  for  religion.  The  beautiful  and 
pregnant  seeds  of  truth  that  lay  imbedded  in  the  teeming 
soil  of  this  great  movement  have  since  fully  germinated  ; 
its  extravagances  have  already,  to  a  great  extent,  been  out- 
grown. 

In  spite  of  theories  disastrous  to  political  and  social 
order,  the  genius  of  Madame  Sand,  Victor  Hugo,  and 
A.  de  Musset,  —  sceptic  and  sensualist  as  he  was,  —  have 
rescued  the  movement  from  the  despair  of  raw  materialism, 
and  produced  works  of  immortal  beauty  and  spiritual  sig- 
nificance. 

They  helped  the  European  spirit  to  recover  its  indepen- 
dence ;  they  reacted  against  the  levelling  tyranny  of  the  first 
Napoleon,  and  were  largely  instrumental  in  undermining 
the  third  Napoleon's  throne  of  gilded  lead.  Stained  with 
license  and  full  of  waywardness,  it  was,  nevertheless,  an  age 
of  great  and  strong  feelings,  —  an  age  volcanic,  vivid,  elec- 
tric. Such  an  age  eagerly  welcomed  the  magicians  who  set 
the  language  of  emotion  free,  and  gave  to  music  its  myriad 
wings  and  million  voices. 

Paganini  appeared.  The  violin  was  no  more  the  violin. 
A  new  transcendent  technique  made  it  the  absolute  minister 
of  an  emancipated  and  fantastic  will.  The  extraordinary 
power  exercised  by  the  Italian  violinist  throughout  Europe 
was  quickened  by  the  electric  air  which  he  breathed.  The 
times  were  ripe.  He  stood  before  kings  and  people  as  the 
very  emotional  embodiment  of  the  Zeitgeist.  He  was  the 
emancipated  demon  of  the  epoch,  with  power  to  wield  the 
sceptre  of  sound,  and  marshal  in  strange  and  frenzied  legions 
the  troubled  spirits  of  the  time. 

When  Liszt  heard  Paganini  it  seemed  to  him  to  be  the 
message  for  which  he  had  been   waiting.     From  him    he 


MEMORIES  OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


177 


doubtless  received  that  passion  for  "transcendent  execu- 
tion," that  absolute  perfection  of  technique,  which  enabled 
him  to  create  the  modern  piano-forte  school,  and  win  for 
Erard  and  Broadwood  what  Paganini  won  for  Stradivarius 
and  Joseph  Guarnerius.  His  transcriptions  of  Paganini's 
studies,  the  arpeggio,  thejioriture,  the  prodigious  attaque 
and  elan  that  took  audiences  by  storm,  the  meetings  of 
extremes  which  abolished  the  spaces  on  the  piano-forte  key- 
board by  making  the  hands  ubiquitous,  —  these  and  other 
"  developments  "  were  doubtless  inspired  by  the  prodigious 
feats  of  Paganini. 

Liszt  now  suddenly  retired  from  the  concert-room.  He 
was  no  longer  heard  in  public  ;  he  seemed  disinclined,  ex- 
cept in  the  presence  of  his  intimates,  to  exhibit  his  won- 
drous talent ;  but  he  retired  to  perfect  himself,  to  work  up 
and  work  out  the  new  impulses  which  he  had  received  from 
Paganini. 

He  thus  early  laid  deep  the  foundations  of  his  unique 
virtuosity  ;  and  when  he  reappeared  in  public  he  seemed  to 
mount  at  once  to  that  solitary  pinnacle  of  fame  and  sur- 
passing excellence  to  which  the  greatest  pianists  then  and 
ever  since  have  looked  up  in  admiring  and  despairing 
wonder.  Tausig  said,  "We  are  all  blockheads  by  the 
side  of  Liszt."  Rubinstein  has  often  declared  Liszt's  per- 
fection of  art  and  wealth  of  resource  to  be  simply  un- 
rivalled. 

For  a  short  time,  in  his  absence  at  Paris,  it  was  thought 
that  Thalberg  would  prove  a  formidable  opponent.  But 
Liszt  had  only  to  reappear,  and  Thalberg  himself  was 
forced  to  join  in  the  general  applause.  When  between  the 
various  schools  there  was  war  it  was  carried  on  by  the 
partisans  of  the  great  men.  Although  they  freely  criticised 
one  another  nothing  is  more  remarkable  than  the  kindly 
personal  feeling  which  obtained  between  Liszt  and  his 
natural  enemies,  the  great  pianists  of  the  age,  —  Mos- 
cheles,  Chopin,  Mendelssohn,  Thalberg. 

There  were  no  doubt  cabals,  and  at  one  time  in  Paris  he 
met  with  much  detraction  ;  but  he  seemed  to  move  in  a 
region  of  lofty  courtesy,  in  which  squabbling  for  precedence 
was  out  of  place  ;  and  his  generosity  of  heart  and  genial 
recognition  of  others'  talent  disarmed  criticism  and  silenced 
malice. 


178 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


With  the  outburst  of  the  Revolution,  with  the  appearance 
of  Paganini,  came  also  to  Liszt  a  violent  reaction  against 
the  current  religious  ideas  and  the  whole  of  the  Catholic 
teaching.  Reading  had  opened  his  eyes ;  the  Catholic 
system  seemed  to  him  not  only  inadequate,  but  false.  He 
required  a  freer  atmosphere,  one  rather  more  interpretative 
of  human  facts  and  human  nature ;  he  thought  he  found  it 
in  the  doctrines  of  the  Saint-Simonians.  The  "  Nouveau 
Christianisme,"  by  far  the  best  of  St.  Simon's  lucubrations, 
seemed  to  show  that  the  Church  had  misrepresented  and 
outraged  the  religion  of  Christ.  It  failed  to  take  due 
account  of  art  and  science,  had  no  sympathy  with  progress, 
refused  altogether  to  assimilate  the  Zeitgeist,  and  had  evi- 
dently ceased  to  lead  the  thinkers  or  purify  the  masses. 

About  this  time  Liszt  came  across  the  eloquent  and  gifted 
Abbe  de  Lamennais.  This  man  it  was  who,  more  than 
any  other,  saved  Liszt  from  drifting  into  the  prevailing 
whirlpool  of  atheism.  The  heterodox  Abbe,  who  himself 
had  broken  with  the  retrograde  religion  of  Rome,  reformu- 
lated his  system,  and  discovered  for  him  what  at  that  time 
he  most  craved  for,  —  a  link  between  his  religion  and  his 
art. 

It  was  towards  the  close  of  1S31  that  Liszt  met  Chopin 
in  Paris.  From  the  first  these  two  men,  so  different, 
became  fast  friends.  Chopin's  delicate,  retiring  soul  found 
a  singular  delight  in  Liszt's  strong  and  imposing  personality. 
Liszt's  exquisite  perception  enabled  him  perfectly  to  live  in 
the  strange  dream-land  of  Chopin's  fancies,  whilst  his  own 
vigor  inspired  Chopin  with  nerve  to  conceive  those  mighty 
Polonaises  that  he  could  never  properly  play  himself,  and 
which  he  so  gladly  committed  to  the  keeping  of  his  pro- 
digious friend.  Liszt  undertook  the  task  of  interpreting 
Chopin  to  the  mixed  crowds  which  he  revelled  in  subduing, 
but  from  which  his  fastidious  and  delicately  strung  friend 
shrank  with  something  like  aversion. 

From  Chopin,  Liszt  and  all  the  world  after  him  got  that 
tcmfo  rubato,  that  playing  with  the  duration  of  notes  with- 
out breaking  the  time,  and  those  arabesque  ornaments  which 
are  woven  like  fine  embroidery  all  about  the  pages  of 
Chopin's  nocturnes,  and  which  lift  what  in  others  are  mere 
casual  flourishes  into  the  dignity  of  interpretative  phrases 
and  poetic  commentaries  on  the  text. 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


179 


People  were  fond  of  comparing  the  two  young  men  who 
so  often  appeared  in  the  same  salons  together,  —  Liszt,  with 
his  finely  shaped,  long,  oval  head  and  profile  d'ivoire,  set 
proudly  on  his  shoulders,  his  stiff  hair  of  dark  blonde  thrown 
back  from  the  forehead  without  a  parting,  and  cut  in  a 
straight  line,  his  aplomb,  his  magnificent  and  courtly  bear- 
ing, his  ready  tongue,  his  flashing  wit  and  fine  irony,  his 
genial  bonhomie  and  irresistibly  winning  smile  ;  and  Chopin, 
also  with  dark  blonde  hair,  but  soft  as  silk,  parted  on  one 
side  ;  to  use  Liszt's  own  words,  "  an  angel  of  fair  counte- 
nance, with  brown  eyes,  from  which  intellect  beamed  rather 
than  burned,  a  gentle,  refined  smile,  slightly  aquiline  nose, 
a  delicious,  clear,  almost  diaphanous  complexion,  all  bear- 
ing witness  to  the  harmony  of  a  soul  which  required  no 
commentary  beyond  itself." 

Nothing  can  be  more  generous  or  more  true  than  Liszt's 
recognition  of  Chopin's  independent  support.  "  To  our 
endeavors,"  he  says,  "  to  our  struggles,  just  then  so  much 
needing  certainty,  he  lent  us  the  support  of  a  calm,  unshak- 
able conviction,  equally  armed  against  apathy  and  cajolery." 
There  was  only  one  picture  on  the  walls  of  Chopin's  room  ; 
it  hung  just  above  his  piano.     It  was  a  head  of  Liszt. 

The  over-intensity  of  Liszt's  powerful  nature  may  have 
occasionally  led  him  into  extravagances  of  virtuosity,  which 
laid  him  open  to  some  just  criticism.  Robert  Schumann 
observed  acutely:  4'  It  appears  as  if  the  sight  of  Chopin 
brought  him  again  to  his  senses." 

The  darling  of  the  aristocracy,  accustomed  from  his 
earliest  youth  to  mix  freely  with  the  haute  noblesse  of 
Germany  and  France,  Liszt  was  a  republican  at  heart. 
He  felt  acutely  for  the  miseries  of  the  people,  and  he  was 
always  a  great  player  for  the  masses.  "  When  I  play,"  he 
once  said,  "  I  always  play  for  the  people  in  the  top  gallery, 
so  that  those  who  can  pay  but  five  groschen  for  their  seats 
may  also  get  something  for  their  money."  He  was  ever  fore- 
most in  alleviating  the  sufferings  of  the  poor,  the  sick,  and 
the  helpless.  He  seems,  indeed,  to  have  been  unable  to 
pass  a  beggar,  and  the  beggars  soon  find  that  out ;  they 
will  even  intrude  upon  his  privacy  and  waylay  him  in  his 
garden. 

Once,  when  at  the  height  of  his  popularity  in  Paris,  a 
friend   found    him  holding   a  crossing-sweeper's  broom  at 


i8o  MEMORIES   OF  A  MUSICAL  LIFE. 

the  corner  of  the  street.  k'  The  fact  is,  "  said  Liszt,  simply, 
"  I  had  no  small  change  for  the  boy,  so  I  told  him  to  change 
me  five  francs,  and  he  asked  me  to  hold  his  broom  for  him 
till  he  returned."  I  forgot  to  ask  Liszt  whether  the  lad 
ever  came  back. 

I  was  walking  with  him  one  day  in  the  private  gardens 
of  the  Villa  d'Este  at  Tivoli  when  some  little  ruffians,  who 
had  clambered  over  the  wall,  rushed  up  to  him  with  a  few 
trumpery  weeds,  which  they  termed  "  bouquets."  The 
benevolent  maestro  took  the  gift  good-humoredly,  and, 
fumbling  in  his  pocket,  produced  several  small  coins, 
which  he  gave  to  the  urchins,  turning  to  me  apologetically : 
"  They  expect  it,  you  know.  In  fact,"  he  added,  with  a 
little  shrug,  "  whenever  I  appear  they  do  expect  it."  His 
gifts  were  not  always  small.  He  could  command  large 
sums  of  money  at  a  moment's  notice.  The  proceeds  of 
many  a  splendid  concert  went  to  manufacturing  committees, 
widows,  orphans,  sick  and  blind.  He  founded  pensions  and 
provided  funds  for  poor  musicians ;  he  set  up  monuments 
to  great  artists.  A  pecuniary  difficulty  arising  about  Bee- 
thoven's statue  at  Bonn,  Liszt  immediately  guaranteed  the 
whole  sum.  In  the  great  commercial  crisis  of  1S34  at 
Lyons  Liszt  gave  concerts  for  the  artisans  out  of  work ; 
and  in  Hungary,  not  long  after,  when  the  overflow  of  the 
Danube  rendered  hundreds  homeless,  Liszt  was  again  to 
the  fore  with  his  brilliant  performances  for  charity. 

All  through  his  life  he  was  an  ardent  pamphleteer,  and 
he  fought  not  only  for  the  poor,  but  in  the  highest  interests 
of  his  art,  and,  above  all,  for  the  dignity  of  his  own  class. 
In  this  he  was  supported  by  such  musical  royalties  as 
Mendelssohn,  Rossini,  Paganini,  and  Lablache.  We  have 
heard  how  in  past  days  the  musicians  were  not  expected 
to  mix  with  the  company,  a  rope  being  laid  down  on  the 
carpet,  showing  the  boundary  line  between  the  sacred  and 
profane  in  social  rank. 

On  one  occasion  Lablache,  entering  the  music  saloon  at 
a  certain  great  house,  observed  the  usual  rope  laid  down 
in  front  of  him  when  he  came  on  to  sing  in  a  duet.  He 
quietly  stooped  down  and  tossed  it  aside.  It  was  never 
replaced,  and  the  offensive  practice  dropped  out  of  London 
society  from  that  day. 

Liszt  refused  to  play  at  the  court  of  Queen  Isabella  in 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE.  181 

Spain  because  the  court  etiquette  forbade  the  introduction 
of  musicians  to  royalty.  In  his  opinion  even  crowned  heads 
owed  a  certain  deference  and  homage  to  the  sovereignties 
of  art,  and  he  determined  it  should  be  paid. 

He  met  Czar  Nicholas  I.,  who  had  very  little  notion  of 
the  respect  due  to  any  one  but  himself,  with  an  angry  look 
and  a  defiant  word ;  he  tossed  Frederick  William  IV. 's 
diamonds  into  the  side  scenes,  and  broke  a  lance  with 
Louis  Philippe,  which  cost  him  a  decoration. 

He  never  forgave  that  thrifty  king  for  abolishing  certain 
musical  pensions,  and  otherwise  snubbing  art.  He  refused 
on  every  occasion  to  play  at  the  Tuileries.  One  day  the 
king  and  his  suite  paid  a  "  private  view  "  visit  to  a  piano- 
forte exhibition  of  Erard's.  Liszt  happened  to  be  in  the 
room,  and  was  trying  a  piano  just  as  his  majesty  entered. 
The  king  advanced  genially  towards  him  and  began  a 
conversation  ;  but  Liszt  merely  bowed  with  a  polished,  but 
icy,  reserve. 

"Do  you  still  remember,"  said  the  king,  "that  you 
played  at  my  house  when  you  were  but  a  boy,  and  I  Duke 
of  Orleans?     Much  has  changed  since  then." 

"Yes,  sire,"  replied  Liszt,  dryly;  "but  not  for  the 
better." 

The  king  showed  his  royal  appreciation  of  the  repartee 
by  striking  the  great  musician's  name  oft*  the  list  of  those 
who  were  about  to  receive  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor. 

The  idol  of  Parisian  drawing-rooms  at  a  most  susceptible 
age,  with  his  convictions  profoundly  shaken  in  Catholicism 
and  Church  discipline,  surrounded  by  wits  and  philosophers 
who  were  equally  sceptical  about  marriage  and  the  very 
foundations  of  society  as  then  constituted,  Liszt's  views  of 
life  not  unnaturally  underwent  a  considerable  change. 

He  had  no  doubt  frankly  and  sincerely  imbibed  Mme. 
Sand's  early  philosophy,  and  his  witty  saying,  which  re- 
minds me  of  something  of  the  kind  in  Rasselas,  that 
"  whether  a  man  marries,  or  not,  he  will  sooner  or  later  be 
sure  to  repent  it,"  belongs  to  this  period.  His  relations 
with  Mme.  Sand  have  been  much  misrepresented.  He  was 
far  more  attracted  by  her  genius  than  by  her  person,  and 
although  for  long  years  he  entertained  for  her  feelings  of 
admiration  and  esteem,  she  never  exercised  over  him  the 
despotic  influence  which  drove  poor  Chopin  to  despair. 


1 82  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

Of  the  misguided  countess  who  threw  herself  upon  his 
protection,  and  whom  he  treated  with  the  utmost  considera- 
tion and  forbearance  for  several  years,  I  shall  not  have  much 
to  say  ;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that  he  was  considerably 
her  junior ;  that  he  did  his  best  to  prevent  her  from  taking 
the  rash  course  which  separated  her  from  her  family  and 
made  her  his  travelling-companion,  and  that  years  afterwards 
her  own  husband,  as  well  as  her  brother,  when  affairs  came 
to  be  arranged  and  the  whole  facts  of  the  case  were 
canvassed  in  aconseif  de  JamilleaX  Paris,  confessed,  of  their 
own  accord,  that  throughout  Liszt  had  acted  "  like  a  man  of 
honor." 

Liszt's  attempt  to  preserve  his  incognito  in  Italy  conspic- 
uously failed.  He  entered  Ricordi's  music-shop  at  Milan, 
and,  sitting  down  at  a  grand  piano,  began  to  improvise. 
"  'Tis  Liszt  or  the  devil !  "  he  heard  Ricordi  whisper  to  a 
clerk,  and  in  another  moment  the  great  Italian  entreprenetir 
had  welcomed  the  Hungarian  virtuoso  and  placed  his  villa, 
his  box  at  the  opera,  his  carriage  and  horses,  at  his  disposal. 

Towards  the  year  1840  the  relations  between  Liszt  and 
the  Countess  d'Agoult  had  become  rather  strained.  The 
inevitable  dissolution  which  awaits  such  alliances  was 
evidently  at  hand.  For  a  brief  period  on  the  shores  of  the 
Lake  of  Como  the  cup  of  his  happiness  had  indeed  seemed 
full ;  but  es  war  ein  Traum.  "  When  the  ideal  form  of  a 
woman,"  so  he  wrote  to  a  friend,  "  floats  before  your 
entranced  soul,  — a  woman  whose  heaven-born  charms  bear 
no  allurements  for  the  senses,  but  only  wing  the  soul  to 
devotion,  —  if  you  see  at  her  side  a  youth  sincere  and  faithful 
in  heart,  weave  these  forms  into  a  moving  story  of  love,  and 
give  it  the  title  '  On  the  Shores  of  the  Lake  of  Como.'  " 

He  wrote,  we  may  be  sure,  as  he  then  felt.  He  was 
sometimes  mistaken,  but  he  was  always  perfectly  open, 
upright,  and  sincere. 

A  little  daughter  was  born  to  him  at  Bellagio,  on  the 
shores  of  that  enchanted  lake.  He  called  her  Cosima  in 
memory  of  Como.  She  became  afterwards  the  wife  of  Von 
Biilow,  then  the  wife  and  widow  of  Richard  Wagner. 

But  in  1840  the  change  came.  The  countess  and  her 
children  went  off  to  Paris,  and  the  roving  spirit  of  the  great 
musician,  after  being  absorbed  for  some  time  in  composi- 
tion,   found    its  restless  rest  in  a  new  series  of  triumphs. 


MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 


«S3 


After  passing  through  Florence,  Bologna,  and  Rome,  he 
went  to  Bonn,  then  to  Vienna,  and  entered  upon  the  last 
great  phase  of  his  career  as  a  virtuoso,  which  lasted  from 
1840  to  between  1850-60. 

In  1842  Liszt  visited  Weimar,  Berlin,  and  then  went  to 
Paris.  He  was  meditating  a  tour  in  Russia.  Pressing 
invitations  reached  him  from  St.  Petersburg  and  Moscow. 
The  most  fabulous  accounts  of  his  virtuosity  had  raised 
expectation  to  its  highest  pitch.  He  was  as  legendary  even 
amongst  the  common  people  as  Paganini. 

His  first  concert  at  St.  Petersburg  realized  the  then 
unheai-d-of  sum  of  £2,000.  The  roads  were  crowded  to  see 
him  pass,  and  the  corridors  and  approaches  to  the  Grand 
Opera  blocked  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  him. 

The  same  scenes  were  repeated  at  Moscow,  where  he  gave 
six  concerts  without  exhausting  the  popular  excitement. 

On  his  return  to  Weimar  he  accepted  the  post  of  Kapell- 
meister to  the  Grand  Duke.  It  provided  him  with  that 
settled  abode,  and,  above  all,  with  an  orchestra,  which  he 
now  felt  so  indispensable  to  meet  his  growing  passion  for 
orchestral  composition.  But  the  time  of  rest  had  not  yet 
come. 

In  1844  and  1845  he  was  received  in  Spain  and  Portugal 
with  incredible  enthusiasm,  after  which  he  returned  to  Bonn 
to  assist  at  the  inauguration  of  Beethoven's  statue.  With 
boundless  liberality  he  had  subscribed  more  money  than 
all  the  princes  and  people  of  Germany  put  together  to 
make  the  statue  worthy  of  the  occasion  and  the  occasion 
worthy  of  the  statue. 

The  golden  river  which  poured  in  to  him  from  all  the 
capitals  of  Europe  now  freely  found  a  new  vent  in  bound- 
less generosity.  Hospitals,  poor  and  needy,  patriotic  cele- 
brations, the  dignity  and  interests  of  art,  were  all  subsidized 
from  his  private  purse. 

His  transcendent  virtuosity  was  only  equalled  by  his 
splendid  munificence  ;  but  he  found  what  others  have  so 
often  experienced,  —  that  great  personal  gifts  and  prodigious 
eclat  cannot  possibly  escape  the  poison  of  envy  and  detrac- 
tion. He  was  attacked  by  calumny  ;  his  very  gifts  denied 
and  ridiculed  ;  his  munificence  ascribed  to  vain-glory,  and 
his  charity  to  pride  and  ostentation  ;  yet  none  will  ever 
know  the  extent  of  his  private   charities,  and  no  one  who 


1S4  MEMORIES   OF  A   MUSICAL  LIFE. 

knows  anything  of  Liszt  can  be  ignorant  of  the  simple, 
unaffected  goodness  of  heart  which  prompts  them.  Still 
he  was  wounded  by  ingratitude  and  abuse.  It  seemed  to 
check  and  paralyze  for  the  moment  his  generous  nature. 

Fetis  saw  him  at  Coblenz  soon  after  the  Bonn  festival, 
at  which  he  had  expended  such  vast  sums.  He  was  sit- 
ting alone,  dejected  and  out  of  health.  He  said  he  was 
sick  of  everything,  tired  of  life,  and  nearly  ruined.  But 
that  mood  never  lasted  long  with  Liszt ;  he  soon  arose  and 
shook  himself  like  a  lion.  His  detractors  slunk  away  into 
their  holes,  and  he  walked  forth  victorious  to  refill  his 
empty  purse  and  reap  new  laurels.  His  career  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  stormy  events  of  1848.  He  settled  down  for 
a  time  at  Weimar,  and  it  was  then  that  he  began  to  take 
that  warm  interest  in  Richard  Wagner  which  ended  in  the 
closest  and  most  enduring  of  friendships. 

He  labored  incessantly  to  get  a  hearing  for  the  "  Lohen- 
grin "  and  "  Tannhauser."  He  forced  Wagner's  composi- 
tions on  the  band  on  the  Grand  Duke ;  he  breasted  public 
opposition  and  fought  nobly  for  the  eccentric  and  obscure 
person  who  was  chiefly  known  as  a  political  outlaw  and 
an  inventor  of  extravagant  compositions  which  it  was  im- 
possible to  play  or  sing,  and  odiously  unpleasant  to  listen 
to. 

But  years  of  faithful  service,  mainly  the  service  and  im- 
mense prestige  and  authority  of  Liszt,  procured  Wagner 
a  hearing,  and  paved  the  way  for  his  glorious  triumphs  at 
Bayreuth  in  1S76,  1882,  and  1883. 

At  the  age  of  seventy-two  Liszt  retained  the  wit  and 
vivacity  of  forty.  He  passed  from  Weimar  to  Rome,  to 
Pesth,  to  Berlin,  to  Vienna;  but  objected  to  cross  the  sea, 
and  told  me  that  he  would  never  again  visit  England.  Lat- 
terly he  seldom  touched  the  piano,  but  loved  to  be  sur- 
rounded by  young  aspirants  to  fame.  To  them  he  was 
prodigal  of  hints,  and  ever  ready  to  lavish  all  sorts  of  kind- 
ness upon  people  who  were  sy?npathiqiie  to  him. 

At  unexpected  moments,  in  the  presence  of  some  timid 
young  girl  overpowered  with  the  honor  of  an  introduction, 
or  alone  with  a  friend  when  old  days  were  spoken  of, 
would  Liszt  sit  down  for  a  few  minutes  and  recall  a  phrase 
of  Chopin,  or  a  quaint  passage  from  Scarlatti,  and  then, 
forgetting  himself,  wander   on  until  a  flash  of  the  old  fire 


MEMORIES    OF  A   MUSICAL   LIFE. 


I85 


came  back  to  his  eyes  as  he  struck  a  few  grand  octaves ;  and 
then,  just  as  you  were  lost  in  contemplation  of  that  noble 
head,  with  its  grand  profile  and  its  cascade  of  white  hair,  and 
those  hands  that  still  seemed  to  be  the  absolutely  uncon- 
scious and  effortless  ministers  of  his  fitful  and  despotic  will, 
the  master  would  turn  away,  break  off,  like  one  suddenly 
blast,  in  the  middle  of  a  bar,  with  "  Come,  let  us  take  a 
little  walk  ;  it  will  be  cool  under  the  trees  ;  "  and  lie  would 
have  been  a  bold  man  who  ventured  in  that  moment  to 
allude  to  the  piano  or  music. 

I  saw  Liszt  but  six  times,  and  then  only  between  the 
years  1876  and  1SS1.  I  have  heard  him  play  upon  two 
occasions  only  ;  then  he  played  certain  pieces  of  Chopin, 
at  my  request,  and  a  new  composition  by  himself.  I  have 
heard  Mme.  Schumann,  Biilow,  Rubinstein,  Menter,  and 
Essipoff ;  but  I  can  understand  that  saying  of  Tausig,  him- 
self one  of  the  greatest  masters  of  technique  whom  Ger- 
many has  ever  produced  :  "  No  mortal  can  measure  him- 
self with  Liszt.     He  dwells  alone  upon  a  solitary  height." 


UNTVEESITY   OF    CALIFOENIA   LIBEAEY, 
BEEKELEY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 

STAMPED   BELOW 

Books  not  returned  on  time  are  subject  to  a  fine  of 
50c  per  volume  after  the  third  day  overdue,  increasing 
to  $1.00  per  volume  after  the  sixth  day.  Books  not  in 
demand  may  be  renewed  if  application  is  made  before 
expiration   of  loan  period. 


' 


552567 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


DATE  DUE 


Music  Library 

University  of  California  at 
Berkeley 


